“In this case, he’s right. You would be surprised, but men do usually have an excellent eye when it comes to female clothes. Look at your wrist. You too, Jack.”
Both of them turned their right arms, displaying their wrist. She did the same. “See how the veins in my wrist and Jack’s look really blue? We have a cool undertone to our skin. Veins in your wrist have a slight green tint because of the warm undertones of your beautiful golden bronze skin. Cool colors such as blue, purple, or turquoise won’t look good on you.”
“I could wear white,” Sophie offered. “Lady Renda says white is always in season.”
“White is for cowards,” Charlotte said. “And Lady Renda is a dinosaur.”
Sophie choked on her tea. Jack chortled.
“When people say white, they often mean a really icy white, which has cool undertones. Pure black isn’t a good idea either. Jack, because of his cooler skin tone, would look very well in black; you wouldn’t. Richard’s skin tone is similar to yours. He wears black, and although he’s a very handsome man, it doesn’t resonate with his skin; it just makes him look menacing. True white is a neutral color—everyone looks well in it, but there is no daring in it, no sense of style. Wear it, and you might just as well announce that you’re playing it safe. We don’t play it safe. We make a statement.” Charlotte passed her hand over the crystal to reactivate it. “Color wheel, stage twelve.”
A complex color wheel ignited in the air above the reader. In the center, twelve bright colors formed the inner core: first, the primary shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Between them were six transitional shades. Past the center, the color wheel split, with each of the twelve inner colors fracturing into four shades. Just outside the center, the color shades turned dark, nearly black. Hair-thin lines sectioned off the wheel into individual colors, each new tone a shade lighter than the previous one, until at the outer rim of the wheel, the colors became nearly white.
“This is your secret weapon. Remember that first blue gown?” Charlotte nodded at the wheel. “Find the color segment.”
Sophie stared at it for a second. “Number twenty-six.”
“Very good. It’s a saturated derivate of cobalt blue.” Charlotte touched the gears. The color wheel slid higher, and the row of pictures she had viewed ignited below it.
“They are all within the same segment,” Sophie said. “The color varies slightly, but they are playing it safe.”
“Exactly. These are the unmarried young women who are supposed to be on the cusp of fashion, which is why they are all wearing what they consider to be the cutting-edge trend. The older the woman, the more vivid the color, but none of them are deviating from the blues—they’re like goats in a herd all following the leading goat. Women who are either attached or are not looking to impress their awareness of fashion onto others will wear whatever color they please. This is the daughter of Duchess Ramone.” Charlotte pointed at the next-to-last picture of a tall, slender young girl. “I’ve met her before. See, she’s wearing green.”
“Shocking!” Jack called out from his chair.
“She is young and ‘in the market,’ so to speak, but she has enough status and daring to do whatever she wants. She also knows that vivid blue isn’t her color either. Still, if you look at the dress closely, there are notes of blue in it. The idea is not to spit in the eye of the current trend but subtly twist it to make it your own.”
“This is ridiculous,” Jack said.
“Fashion is utterly ridiculous,” Charlotte told him. “And ninety-nine percent of the fashion is who is wearing it. Some no name wears an ugly hat, and people say it’s an ugly hat. If Duchess Ramone wears an ugly hat, people say, ‘What an interesting new trend.’”
“So it’s about money?” Sophie asked.
“No. It’s about poise. You must be supremely confident in what you’re wearing and comfortable in your own skin. Being a blueblood isn’t just knowing the rules. It’s knowing the precisely correct thing to do in every situation, then doing it with unshakable entitlement.”
Sophie frowned, puzzled.
Charlotte smiled at her. “It’s not very difficult. Have no fear, we’ll practice. But back to the color wheel. Forget white and black. We must show off your skin, your neck, and that face. This is where the impact should be.” Charlotte picked up a drawing pad. “Segment 28, row 17.”
A beautiful warm gray, reminiscent at once of the pearly inside of an oyster shell and the soft glow of polished aluminum, ignited above the imager.
Sophie leaned forward, her eyes wide. “It’s the color of my sword.”
Charlotte smiled and began to sketch. They would have to add some pale blue accents to nod at the trend, but nothing major.
“But where will we get the dress?” Sophie asked.
“Dresses. We each need a set of at least six outfits, all tied together with similar design elements. We’ll take a page out of Richard’s playbook, contact the best dressmaker we can find, and throw an obscene amount of money at her.” Charlotte continued to sketch. The dressmaker would likely balk—the silhouette that emerged on the paper was slightly uncommon for a young girl, but it suited Sophie perfectly. “If she digs her heels in, we’ll find another. I’m not without means, and when it comes to dresses, money makes a most convincing argument.”
“You don’t need to spend money on me,” Sophie said. “My sister is married to William Sandine. I can get bucketloads of money.”
“I don’t have to—I want to.” Charlotte grinned and turned to Jack. “Would you like to help?”
The expression on his face underwent a lightning change, from surprise, to fear, to a bored, distant expression. “I suppose,” he said, and yawned. “If I’m bored.”