Free The Pink Suit: A Novel by Nicole Kelby Page A

stairs, Patrick Harris began to softly sing. God save our gracious Queen. Long live our noble Queen.
    He sounded more sad than cruel, but the song was such an odd choice for this moment. The Queen lorded over everyone. Poor Ireland. Poor us.
    Kate should have been angry. “Free Ireland,” her father would have said.
    She stopped at the bottom of the stairs with her hand on the door. She could still feel the warmth of his kiss. She hesitated and looked up at him, standing on the landing, singing. He was watching her. Light flooded over him, a store-bought sun, softening the lines in his face.
    God Save the Queen, he sang, and his voice cracked, just a little. It took her breath away.
    Patrick went into the apartment and gently closed the door behind him. She could hear him walk across the floorboards and then stop. Kate imagined him standing over Peg’s chair, with its small, white sweater, a sleeping ghost.
    Kate walked out into the cold night of Inwood alone, longing for the heady scent of peat smoke, the soft stars, and the damp air of a homeland that seemed now to be just a dream.

Chapter Six
    â€œShocking pink was an invention of [Elsa] Schiaparelli and a symbol of her thinking. To be shocking was the snobbism of the moment.”
    â€”Bettina Ballard
    I t was Friday again. An entire week had passed, and Kate had not seen Patrick. Another day at Chez Ninon was nearly over. The scent of raw silk—the particular stench of dried mulberries and sea air, of heat and rot—clung to Kate’s hands and hair. She’d spent the day making “feathers” from rare wild silk for Mrs. Astor’s new gown.
    â€œIt must be completely covered,” Mr. Charles said. “Miss Nona insists.”
    The project’s impossible architecture was overwhelming, and Kate was happy for that. She hardly thought of Patrick at all that day. The silk was as iridescent as pearls; it didn’t even seem to be real. Kate took a match to a thread just to make sure. True silk burns slowly. And this had. Then she had checked the bolt for its voice, the silk voice. Real silk sings in a very particular manner when the pieces are rubbed together. And it sang. It sang with the softness of wings. The silk was real—and daunting.
    Raw silk stains easily and absorbs any bit of water, even humidity. The requirements of the project were completely absurd. Each “feather” must look absolutely real. It must be soft as down, which meant it had to be sheared and scissored into life by hand. Each feather needed to be so small that it would appear to have fallen from a chick. And there was very little silk on the bolt, so there could be no staining or waste.
    Kate had worked since early morning, and there were still about 426 feathers left to make. When she was finished, the feathers had to be sewn onto chiffon with stitches so fine, they would be invisible. Mrs. Astor was coming by for a final fitting the next morning—and Mrs. Astor could not be denied.
    Neither, though, could the Ladies. Miss Nona and Miss Sophie apologized profusely as they pulled Kate away from the project.
    â€œWe need to see you in the office.”
    â€œIt’s urgent,” Miss Sophie said.
    Kate never liked the word urgent . It always had an ominous ring to it.
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    The day was cloudy. The blue office had a murky cast. Kate sat gingerly on the edge of the pale settee. She had silk dust all over her. The light from the crystal chandelier overhead covered her in rainbows, but she was clearly in need of a bath.
    Miss Sophie and Miss Nona were both dressed in Chanel suits—real Chanels. Miss Sophie’s was black bouclé with a mandarin collar trimmed in gold braid. Miss Nona’s was white and gold tweed, and a gold chain hung around her tiny waist. Gilded, as always, the two sat side by side at the faux Louis XIV desk and volleyed the conversation back and forth.
    â€œWe need you to tidy yourself