Crewel (4 page)

I don’t ask him why. I don’t want to get too cosy with him. There’s no point. We continue to walk, but his eyes stay locked on me. He must have passed this way many times before, because he doesn’t need to look ahead to see where he’s going.

‘Let me carry you.’ He sounds resigned but there’s a note of kindness to his offer.

‘I’m fine,’ I insist too harshly, and I try to hide the blush that’s creeping onto my neck at the thought of his arms around me again.

He grunts and stops staring at me. ‘So you ran?’

I keep my eyes on the door at the end of the stone hall.

‘Let me guess, you think I’m going to tattle on you?’ He grabs my arm to halt our progression, leaning in to keep his voice from echoing. ‘If you ran, it doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter if you admit it. They’ve marked you and they’ll watch you. So take my advice and play dumb.’

His eyes flicker like the tip of a flame, accentuating his warning, and I know he means it.

‘Why do you even care?’

‘Because they’ll kill you,’ he says without hesitation. ‘And a girl with enough smarts to run is hard to come by these days.’

‘Then they could kill you for talking to me like this,’ I whisper, and it comes out as desperation, fear, everything I’ve been feeling in the cell. He seems to respond to the emotion in my voice, as though I’m putting words to the unspoken tension in the air, and for just a moment, he leans down closer to me, and I wait for what he’ll tell me next, with my breath caught in my throat.

He shrugs. ‘If you tell. And you won’t.’

I try to hide my disappointment, but he’s right. I won’t tell on him, but I’m not sure if it’s because he said I was smart or if it’s because I feel like we share a secret. Neither of us is what we appear to be.

He opens the door to reveal a sterile staircase with bright white walls that feel out of step with the old, musty cell block. My guide flourishes his arm, but as I cross the threshold, he whispers, so softly I barely hear: ‘Besides, there are worse things than death here.’

The clucking disapproval of the Coventry cosmeticians is beginning to wear me out. The boy left me at the top of the steps, and a girl herded me to a shower. The water was painfully cold, reinforcing my belief that I’ll never be warm again unless I start to play along. So here I sit, eyes cast down, quiet, completely malleable to their designs. It isn’t bad. They’ve given me a downy white robe, and despite my fervent desire to hate this, the feeling of having my hair combed and shampooed is relaxing. Maybe I’ve just missed human contact.

A woman snips furiously at my hair, while another smooths cream over my face. They shape my eyebrows into trim arches and line them for emphasis. Then they spread a milky white paint across my face and set it with powder. I remember my mother carefully doing the same, explaining step-by-step what each item was, and stopping to tell me how few cosmetics I would need when my time came – how flawless my skin was. She would cringe to see them paint my face now, and I keep imagining she’ll burst through the door and save me from the powders and rough pots of colour and long pricking pens for my eyes.

‘She’s horribly gaunt,’ the scissor woman notes, now applying thick globs of gel with a brush to my still-wet hair.

‘She was in the cells . . . ?’ Her companion’s voice trails into a question. I look up to see the face I know she’s making – the one that is suggestive and haughty – but instead find a plaster mould of serenity. Only the lingering peak in her voice betrays her curiosity, but it’s not my own interest in what she’s saying that keeps me riveted to her face. It’s her beauty, one rivalled only by that of the woman cutting my hair. Skin as pure as fresh honey, and deep, black eyes painted into exaggerated almonds. The other has silvery skin and corn-silk hair, woven delicately into braids around her head. Her lips are as red as fresh blood. Looking away, I imagine what they think of my dull copper hair and pasty skin. I don’t look back up as they buff and remake me. I don’t bother to speak. They finish, and continue their idle gossip, never once addressing me, and I’m not sure if it is because I am beneath them or above them. When they’re done, they leave me in the chair, and I finally brave a look at the mirrored walls around me. My image confronts me on every side, some staring back and others turning away like a stranger. In my simple robe, I look like my mother – older and more beautiful. I look like a woman.

Standing, I take a few steps forward to touch the cool glass. I’ve never spent much time at the mirror, but it’s comforting to stand here now. A hundred images of me gazing back, proving my existence. I turn my name over in my head and try to attach it to this woman with scarlet hair that drapes down against her snowy robe, and emerald eyes set by dark gold lines against a smooth, sculpted face. This stranger. Myself. Adelice.

As I stare, unable to turn away, one of the mirrors cracks cleanly down the side and for a moment, startled, I back away, unsure how I’ve broken it. The crack grows to reveal a panel in the glass. A woman steps through, and it seals seamlessly behind her. She’s wearing a tailored suit, and her raven hair is perfectly pinned into a twist. Her age doesn’t show in her made-up face, but the angles of her cheekbones and the arch of her eyebrows set over her luminous but clearly artificial violet eyes make her look older to me. But it’s the way she carries herself – it’s the aura of control and authority reflected in her refined face and smart suit – that tells me this is no ordinary Spinster.

She doesn’t speak at first. Instead she runs her eyes down me, and I wonder if it’s permissible to speak to a Spinster. I think of the boy who carried me in the cells.
Play dumb.
I can’t imagine keeping my tongue still and dry in my mouth day after day.

‘Congratulations on your achievement,’ she whispers, and even in the empty room I strain to hear her. I catch my breath, afraid an inhale or exhale will overwhelm her small voice.

‘Not many make it to this point, Adelice. You should be proud.’ Her smile doesn’t reach her false eyes. ‘My name is Maela, and it’s my job to welcome and train Eligibles. We’ve been processing the other girls. Orientation begins tomorrow. You almost missed it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble, as shame washes over me, forcing me to cast my eyes down to my bare feet.

‘Sit,’ Maela commands, pointing to the prep chair. ‘The life of the Spinster is full of honour. You can do that which few can. You have power.’ Her whisper-quiet voice is feverish. ‘But, Adelice,’ Maela purrs into my ear, ‘you must not presume you are in control.’

My heart is a war drum, pounding too loudly. She has been sent to break me or at least to begin the process, but it won’t work. I rub my thumb over the hourglass scar on my wrist and remember my father’s final words. I won’t let this woman scare me. But the memory of him burned into my skin sends a surge of renewed hatred seething through me. It burns through my chest and out into my arms, and I have to suppress the urge to attack this sly woman.

Maela towers behind me and strokes my hair. I breathe carefully – in and out – aware of each breath. I watch these strangers in the mirror as she smiles, showing rows of perfect teeth against her lipsticked mouth.

‘We are set above those in Arras.’ Her voice is steady now, and she speaks in a normal, conversational tone as she flicks stray bits of cut hair from my shoulders. ‘But you belong to the Guild.’

Belong.
I swallow hard on the word and try to shove its bitterness down my throat.

‘You will have everything.’ She leans down and tucks her chin against my shoulder, taking my strange face into her cold, slick hand. ‘You will be beautiful and young.’ She squeezes my face and looses a quiet, bell-like laugh as though we’re old friends or sisters confiding in one
another
. ‘Oh, Adelice, the life that awaits you . . .’ With a sigh, Maela draws back up and studies us in the mirror. In one swift motion she raises a long, thin wand and I cringe back. She laughs again and strikes a match. A moment later the spark from her cigarette is flickering back at me in a thousand reflections.

‘I’m almost jealous,’ Maela says.

‘I’m very honoured.’ I manage to push the words out of my mouth.

Her smile widens as I play her game. ‘Of course you are. Only someone very stupid would not want this life.’

She whirls around and somehow she doesn’t look foolish, but even more stunning, even more controlling. ‘Here, you are beautiful, Adelice. Here, you have a chance at something other than serving the ridiculous demands of men. Here,’ Maela adds thoughtfully, ‘you are more than a secretary.’

I know from the way she watches my face that she’s mocking my mother, but I keep my gaze level with hers.

‘But there’s just one thing you have to remember.’ She breathes down on me, and the stench of her cigarette stings my nostrils. ‘There is no running away from here, Adelice Lewys.’

I feel the cosmetics hiding me now, and I see my mother reflected back at me in the mirror.

Do not let her see you worry. Give nothing away.

‘There is no hiding.’ Her sweet whisper sounds strangely like a hiss. ‘There is not even death. So choose now what side you are on.’

I stare back. I hear the boy’s final words to me, and I wonder what could possibly be worse than death. But I know the answer: cold stone and burning darkness.

‘Of course.’ My response is simple and I dare not test myself by speaking more.

Maela’s smile fades into a self-satisfied smirk, and I’m sure this is the only genuine emotion she’s displayed thus far.

‘Well, then.’ She pats my shoulder, dropping ash onto my robe. ‘Your room is waiting for you.’

‘Maela,’ I say, my voice timid but steady, ‘do you know what happened to my mother and sister?’ I have to ask even though I’m terrified of showing her my weakness. I try to look strong.

‘I can imagine,’ she says, but instead of telling me what she thinks, she leaves me to my own desperate fantasies and calls for her assistant to join us. I’m surprised to see it’s a boy, but I suppose the girls here are busy with more important tasks. I watch as she whispers orders to him, throwing meaningful glances over her shoulder at me.

Her personal assistant escorts me to my new quarters. The sterile halls of the compound shift slowly as we enter the housing unit. First, the concrete changes to smooth wood. Then the white walls blossom: vermilion, garnet. We pass velvet divans and marble pillars and enter a bronze-gated lift. It reminds me of Romen’s metro hall, and I shudder, remembering the grotesque figures perched on the exterior corners of the hall of records there. Monsters carved from stone that leered down at the citizens, beautiful and terrifying.

Everything here throbs with brilliant energy, and yet there’s an absence of real life. The lift is silent, and my guide doesn’t speak as we ride further and further up into the tower. I stand behind him and study how his gold hair glistens and waves against his shoulders. It’s not typical Guild-approved grooming, but I suppose it’s a perk of being an errand boy for such a powerful Spinster.

My room sits at the end of the hall behind a plum-lacquered door on the fifteenth floor. It’s a beautiful apartment trimmed with carved woodwork painted in rich cream and subtle gold. At the far end, a fire blazes in a brick-and-wrought-iron hearth. Above it hangs a portrait of a woman who looks strangely like the new me. Intricate patterns decorate the woven rugs that stretch across the large room, and silk pillows in emerald and garnet and champagne lie scattered around small mahogany tables.

‘I’ll see that they deliver some supper to you. You missed the evening meal,’ my guide informs me. He watches as I wander around the room, and when I turn back, he’s grinning.

‘Th-th-thank you,’ I stammer.

‘It’s a bit of an upgrade from the cell, I imagine,’ he says, and I turn to look at him more carefully: it’s the same boy who gave the order to sedate me in the rebound chamber. He’s taller than I am, and his suit hugs his broad shoulders and rigid arms enough to show he has the strength necessary to be a bodyguard. But despite his powerful body, his face is fair and framed by delicate hair. It’s the hair that perks my fuzzy memory of my retrieval night.

‘You—’ I stop short of accusing him.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says, the cocky grin fading from his face. ‘Orders are orders. If it makes you feel better, you got off easy. Name’s Erik.’

I stare coldly at the hand he stretches out in greeting.
Sure, let’s be friends. You only left me in the cold with no food.

The thought twists my stomach with hunger, reminding me that I’ve still not eaten since the few bites at the café in Nilus. ‘It doesn’t actually.’

Erik laughs and shakes his head, proving he’s a first-class jerk. ‘I’ll make sure they send you up plenty of food. You’ll begin training in the morning.’

I want to refuse the food and the fancy room with its luxurious furnishings. I want to crawl into a hole and starve slowly, but if I do I won’t be in a position to protect Amie or find out where my mother is, so I turn away from him instead. The door locks behind him, and I’m alone in this strange, new world.

As dawn arrives I rest on soft satin and cotton. My bed is a long cushion that runs the entire length of one wall, butting against floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Endless Sea. I imagine slipping my toes into the water, wondering if it is cold and if the salt would sting my feet as the sun creeps up and paints the water dusty pink and
orange
.

I’ve never been so comfortable in my whole life. A tray of half-eaten delicacies sits at my feet. My mom was an adequate cook, and she did the best she could with the rationed food available in our metro. But last night I ate duck in butter sauce. Rice with saffron and apricots.
Torta di cioccolato.
I only know the names of the foods because they’re written on the small menu card tucked under the etched silver plate they came piled on.

Outside, a storm lingers on the periphery of my view, tainting the rose-coloured morning. It’s woven in for entertainment or local crops. The clouds build and swell with the coming rain. As I watch, the texture of the weave comes into focus, and I can see the additions of rain and lightning slowly snaking across the sky. I reach out to open the window and am surprised when my fingers make direct contact with the fibres, drawing the darkness towards me. There’s no glass between me and the weave outside. But how can that be? I struggle to understand how I’m able to expand the thunderstorm from the confines of my quarters. Unless it’s not a window I’m looking through. Looking closer I see that the weave of the window and the scene outside it are artificial, layered on top of the real weave of the room, like a painting done on top of a masterpiece. The original weave of the room is still visible when I strain to see it, but the artificial top layer only mimics that of the genuine article. I know because the golden bands that should be present are stagnant. Time isn’t moving forward in this window, because it’s not a real piece of Arras. It must be some type of programme created to look like a real window with real scenery. As I consider that possibility, I lose track of my work. The storm swells in the clouds until they are ripe with moisture. It looks so real that I almost believe the rain strands leave my fingers wet. My hands become heavy with the material knitted through my fingers, and I drop the weave, shocked to discover how much is pooled across my lap. It dissipates as thunder crescendos and cracks along the false windowpanes. The rain pours down, a dam bursting the skyline. I wish I could weave tears into my eyes, loosing the constant ache from my chest. But they won’t come, so I stare at the rain, which I’ve freed to fall from the bloated clouds.

I don’t even notice she’s watching me, wide-eyed and curious, until she clears her throat. I spin around awkwardly. She isn’t much older than I am, but in typical Spinster fashion her honey-gold hair is piled in curls on top of her head and her black suit hugs her willowy figure, precisely tailored to fit her. She looks softer than most of the women I’ve met here so far and her cosmetics are applied to highlight her graceful features rather than to draw unnecessary attention to her. Everything about her feels approachable and welcoming. And here I am lying around with last night’s cosmetics smeared across my face, and a pile of half-eaten food at my feet.

She raises her hand as if to stop me from getting up. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you might be sleeping. I’m here to serve as your mentor. Call me Enora.’

‘Am I expected to be somewhere?’ The words tumble out in a rush of speech that even I barely comprehend. ‘I can get dressed!’

But the word
dressed
stops me cold. I’m still wearing the robe from yesterday, and I don’t own a stitch of clothing. I’ve spent an entire night in bed watching the waves, and I don’t even know if I have a wardrobe.

‘Adelice.’ Enora says my name in a forceful but gentle tone. ‘Sit down and relax. Breakfast will be delivered soon. I’m here to discuss everything with you.’

I’m rooted to the spot, still embarrassed at my total ignorance.

‘Including your clothes,’ she assures me, as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I sit down, as instructed, on a large cushion in the middle of the room. Moments later heaped trays of food appear, wafting buttery, salty smells around us. The server lays out the food and plates on the small tables dotting the large space around the fireplace. My guest smiles and takes a seat in one of the few actual chairs the room offers while the server stokes the dying embers in my hearth and adds fresh wood.

‘You must have a million questions,’ Enora begins warmly.

I nod, painfully aware of the gnawing growl of my stomach. Nerves and hunger – not a good combination.

‘You’re hungry,’ she points out, obviously attuned to the slight shake of my hands. ‘You eat, and I’ll talk. You can ask questions when you’re done.’

There is something easy and genuine about her. I get the sense that she, unlike Maela, can be trusted. I feel comfortable enough to slowly, and as politely as possible, begin shoving food in my mouth.

‘I will be your mentor while you train to spin. I am a Guild-appointed Spinster and I assist the Creweler. I’m here to answer questions, provide advice, and offer moral support. Your first few years in the Coventry may require some . . . transition.’ I can hear how carefully she chooses this word, but unlike the other Spinster, whose saccharine speech belied venom, this woman’s intentions are clear. She’s trying not to frighten me.

‘What’s a Creweler?’ The question is out of my mouth before I swallow, and despite her kind smile I’m ashamed of my crass behaviour.

‘In a moment. We have more pressing issues to discuss.’

As if on cue the door to my apartment swings open and several plainly dressed young girls roll large racks of wildly coloured textiles into the entryway.

‘Thank you.’ Enora holds out a small card and one of the girls swiftly retrieves it with a curtsy. They are gone as quickly as they appeared.

‘Your aestheticians sent your measurements to the mill last night and this is the start of your wardrobe,’ she tells me, busily plucking through the hangers and pulling out a brilliant green dress and a charcoal suit. I hear her murmur something like ‘lovely’ to herself.

‘I know we have a dress code, but is there a reason I have to get so decked out?’ I ask as she pulls another satin evening gown from the rack.

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she asks with her back to me.

‘Yes.’ And it’s the truth. ‘But where am I going to wear this?’ I hold up a slinky grey dress. I’ve always understood why career women need to dress neatly for their bosses – my mother sported suits with gold buttons and pressed lapels to the office daily – but I can’t imagine weaving in an evening gown.

‘It’s one of the perks. Every girl attends her share of Guild dinner parties and then of course there’re the
Bulletin
reports. You’ll have occasion to wear them, but nothing this extravagant for everyday weaving,’ Enora assures me. ‘Sometimes the Guild calls girls who are very talented but lack the finesse necessary to work on the looms. It would be wasteful to put them to work in the quarters or in the kitchen, so they go to work as our seamstresses.’

‘What if I don’t want to wear things like this?’ I try to keep the challenge out of my voice, but it slips through anyway.

Enora stares at me, not blinking, before she answers, ‘Would you waste these girls’ talents?’

‘Why not send them home?’ I immediately wish I could take the question back as her eyes flash to me and then to the garment rack.

‘No one goes home,’ she responds evenly, but there’s an edge to her voice and her fingers tremble as they weed through my new wardrobe.

‘I guess I knew that.’

‘That won’t be an issue for you,’ she chirps, clearly trying to lighten the mood. ‘You should know that whatever you say to me stays between us.’

This strikes me as exactly the kind of thing you say when you’re a spy, but my gut wants to believe her, so I merely nod.

‘Good.’ Enora saunters over to sit on the cushion next to mine and lowers her voice. ‘What I saw you doing, Adelice – weaving without a loom. Have you done that before?’

It takes a moment to realise she is referring to the storm earlier. ‘Yes. Not often, though.’

‘And you don’t need any instruments?’ she presses, her voice the hint of a whisper.

‘No.’ I’m confused, but I whisper along with her. ‘I’ve always been able to do it that way. But the windows aren’t real . . .’

She nods conspiratorially.

‘Of course not. Glass is breakable, and the Guild wants the Spinsters kept secure. It’s basically a large screen created to look like a window. There’s a special programme coded to run scenic views throughout the compound. There are no real windows. Nearly every wall here is a giant screen programmed to specific images. We have seasons and everything. Most girls never notice it’s a programme.’

‘It looks so real, but I wondered why I could touch it,’ I murmur.

Fear flashes through her chocolate-brown eyes.

‘I need you to trust me. You must never tell anyone else you can do that. Always use a loom to weave – try not to do it without one, even when you are alone.’

I raise my eyebrows. Her words remind me of the boy from the prison and his admonition to play dumb. They are keeping me alive, these kind tips from mysterious strangers. I consider telling her about my slip at testing, and that I’m sure Cormac already knows, but I’m not sure what good it would do.

‘So they’re like vlip screens then?’ I clarify.

‘Almost exactly, but much higher-tech than the ones available for home use. The images are more realistic.’

She’s right. I had thought it was a real window before I touched it and found it was so easy to manipulate. Something’s bothering me though about how I changed the rainstorm. ‘If someone else were to touch it, would they be able to change it?’

‘I’ve never seen anyone do that before,’ she admits. ‘Every Spinster here works the weave on looms. That’s why you can’t tell anyone about what I saw you do. Do you understand?’

I’m not certain how my weaving skills could possibly be dangerous to me now that I’m already locked away in the Coventry, but I nod that I will keep quiet about it.

‘Smart girl,’ she breathes and then pops back onto her heels – back to business. ‘Your stylists can be expected to arrive at seven-thirty. Please be bathed by then. That isn’t their job. Should you require someone to wash you, I will appoint a hand servant.’

‘To wash me?’ I repeat in disbelief. ‘In case I don’t know how?’

My incredulity is rewarded by a short, amused laugh. ‘Some Spinsters prefer that someone else . . .’

‘Do their dirty work?’

‘Something like that.’ Enora grins, and I feel trust growing roots in my belly. Despite my best attempts to remain wary and detached, I like Enora. Maybe this is how they’ll break me – by giving me a friend.

‘Valery is your primary aesthetician,’ she says. ‘She’s kind and she won’t make you look ridiculous.’

I study Enora’s delicate face and hair. ‘Is she your stylist?’

‘She was . . .’ She hesitates as though this subject is painful. Or maybe just off-limits. ‘You will be in training for the next month,’ she continues.

‘It takes that long?’ I ask, picking apart small cakes to remove dried fruits and nuts.

‘For some,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Others are cleared more quickly, but everyone gets at least a month to prove herself.’

‘And if I don’t prove myself?’

Enora bites her lip and pretends to inspect the shoes lining the carts displaying my new wardrobe.

‘Will I go to work making clothes for the other Spinsters?’ I ask, sounding too hopeful.

‘Yes, some do, but others become servants here at the Coventry.’

‘They get to do the literal dirty work,’ I murmur. The hierarchy is clearer now, and I understand why it’s important to fall into place.

‘Yes, it happens. Many Eligibles find the amount of stress that naturally comes with weaving to be too much. Their work lacks the focus and precision necessary in a Spinster.’

I hate to admit it, but this makes sense. You don’t want someone with shaky hands working with the weave. It’s so delicate that it could be disastrous. ‘But how do we learn?’

‘To weave?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’ I bite my lip. ‘What if I make a mistake?’

‘Well, I’m not terribly worried about your ability, but you will be monitored. Spinsters follow close patterns established by the Creweler. Once you’ve spent some time on the practice sections and learned the various patterns, the work is fairly simple. It will be a while before you advance to ripping and altering.’

‘Ripping?’ The word scratches across my tongue. I’m not sure I want to know what it means.

‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ Enora says, but her voice is unconvincing. ‘It merely refers to removing weak or brittle threads.’

‘By “threads”, you mean people?’

There’s a slight pause before she says, ‘Yes.’

‘So when you rip, you’re killing someone?’ I remember my mother crying outside my grandmother’s hospital room after a stern nurse sent us away for a moment; we never saw my grandmother again.

‘It’s much more humane than what used to happen,’ Enora continues, her warm chocolate eyes misting over a little. ‘In the past, people watched their loved ones die, and then buried their bodies.’

‘What happens to people when they’re ripped?’ I whisper, recalling my grandmother’s fragile hand squeezing mine tightly before we were sent to the hallway, still so strong.

‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just not my department.’

It’s obvious from the tone of her voice. This conversation is over.

‘You’ve mentioned the Creweler twice,’ I say, shifting topics and hoping she’s game to answer a few more questions. ‘What exactly does she do?’

Enora smiles and something about the way her eyes dull tells me this is going to be a rehearsed answer. ‘The Creweler helps the Guild harvest raw materials for the weave of Arras, and she guides our own work.’

‘So I’ll be working under her then?’ For one brief moment, I want to ask if Maela is the Creweler, but if she is, I’d rather not know.