Crewel (7 page)

‘Today you will each be completing your first removal,’ Maela tells us.

‘You mean ripping?’ Pryana asks. For a brief moment the muscles of Maela’s jaw visibly tense, but she remains composed.

I think I like Pryana enough to make friends, like Enora instructed.

‘Yes, some people refer to it as such. I find the term vulgar,’ Maela answers smoothly, but her jaw is still tensed.

I find the whole thing vulgar, but I bite my tongue so as not to attract her wrath or more attention from her rapt disciples.

Maela nods to Erik, who steps towards the far wall and presses a series of buttons. The other girls watch him. Even Pryana’s gaze is greedy as he strides by. As soon as he enters the code, glistening, nearly transparent tapestries appear on the strange steel looms dotting the room. The appearance of the weave is the only thing that can tear their attention from him. Many of the girls gasp, and one even shrinks back as if the mere sight scares her. For girls who’ve only touched a practice loom at testing, the sight of Arras laid before them must be overwhelming. Even though I’ve always been able to visualise the weave, seeing it like this, called up for our use, makes my stomach knot.

‘Can you see the weave without a loom?’ The question is out of my mouth before I can swallow it back, but I need to know how big a freak I am.

Erik stares at me curiously, but Maela looks annoyed at the interruption.

‘No, that’s ridiculous. The weave is the very time and matter that we occupy. Of course you can’t just see it,’ she snaps.

Except,
of course
I can. But apparently she can’t, and judging from the looks on the others’ faces, neither can they. I’m alone in this ability.

‘This,’ she continues, gesturing to a large ornate piece woven with vibrant greens, pinks, and reds, ‘is you.’

The girls crowd closer together and press forward to see the brilliant weave.

‘We’re beautiful,’ a petite girl notes with awe.

‘Of course you are,’ Maela coos. ‘The rest of these pieces are from various cities within the Western Sector. The looms allow us to call up and view the actual fabric of Arras, and each day the Spinsters prune the parts of the weave that are our responsibility. They check for brittle threads, and they handle any removal requests we receive through proper authorities.’

She demonstrates how to adjust the settings on the loom to pull the weave’s image into more detailed focus. As we watch, the piece of Arras on the loom zooms from a swirling array of colours and light into the subtle image of a house.

‘You can request removal?’

‘Yes, certainly. Individuals may request removal as well as law enforcement officials. Hospital staff submit removal requests for individuals in poor health and for the elderly.’

I think of my grandmother and wonder who put in her request – certainly not her or my mother. She wasn’t weak enough to need removal. My eyes smart at the idea of some doctor deciding it was her time to go.

‘These looms feature areas where maintenance is needed. We will visit each, and you will be given a chance to identify the weak point and remove it. Although the looms are equipped to allow you to zoom in and out of the piece as necessary and even to locate very specific strands, there’s a certain skill to being able to find the weakness without using the magnifiers and locators.’

I shift uncomfortably in my heels and notice several
other
Eligibles doing the same. It’s a lot to ask considering we’re so new.

‘No need to be frightened,’ Maela says reassuringly, obviously sensing the apprehension around her. ‘You simply use your fingers to read the weave. Watch.’

Moving to the nearest loom, Maela traces a long, polished finger over the surface, from left to right, moving in lines down the piece until her hand stops. Closing her eyes briefly, Maela lets her hand rest there.

‘Here,’ she says, and the group goes utterly still. ‘It is thinner than the rest. Worn and tired. I can feel the stress it is placing on the other threads nearby. They are doing more than their fair share to keep everything together.’

No one breathes as Maela takes a long silver instrument from the caddy at the edge of the loom. ‘Simply hook this end,’ she says as she gently threads the crook between the strands and with a swift motion rends the piece. A shimmering thread hangs from the end of the hook and she holds it out for us to inspect. ‘Simple.’

My stomach flips over. What does it feel like to be removed? The piece still exists, but where is that person now?

‘Now, who is ready for her turn?’ asks Maela.

A dozen girls crowd forward, eager to prove themselves. Pryana meets my eye, and I see horror reflecting back in her almond eyes. At least I’m not the only one sickened by this test.

Girl after girl steps up and attempts the test. One girl nearly takes out an entire section, but Maela swiftly stops her. I wonder if her mistake will doom her to a life slaving away at the mercy of the Coventry. Soon only Pryana and I are left. I see how unnerved she is, and I step forward, not only to give her a few more moments to compose herself, but also to get it over with.

Maela leads me to a new piece. It is more intricately woven than the other pieces we’ve seen so far; thousands of glinting threads lace and wind together in a rainbow canvas of light. A few girls eye it apprehensively. It is much more complex than the rest, but it’s not what scares me.

‘Let’s see what you can do,’ she says encouragingly.

I reach forward and softly touch my fingertips to the piece. The sensation is shocking. I’ve touched pieces of a weave before, but never sections that contained people. There’s a charge running through the piece, and I realise that what I’m feeling is the energy of the thousands of lives that rest under my fingers. Despite the complexity, my hand immediately senses the weakness. It’s so minuscule I can’t imagine trying to remove it without damaging all the other strands around it. I also can’t imagine that this tiny weakness could be a real threat to such a large, tightly woven piece.

‘It’s here,’ I murmur, and I hear an impressed buzz from the others around me.

‘Very good,’ Maela replies simply. She brandishes the hook like a weapon, and I see the dare in her eyes. She must know this ripping is unnecessary – possibly dangerous – but it’s clear I’m being tested at a more advanced level.

‘No need.’ I remove my hand from the spot. ‘It’s no danger to such a beautifully woven piece.’

‘That’s not really a determination for you to make, Adelice,’ she hisses, and she holds the hook out further.

‘Removing it would risk all the surrounding threads. It’s not necessary.’ I lift my chin and meet her eyes, daring her to defy my proclamation.

‘Adelice, I won’t tell you again. You put us all in danger when you don’t do your part,’ she says, as though she’s instructing me on simple addition and subtraction.

‘And I’m telling you there is no risk,’ I reiterate, my heart beginning to race. ‘In fact, it would be more dangerous to remove it.’

‘Is that so?’ She seems genuinely interested in my opinion, but I know it’s just a show. ‘In that case . . .’

Her motion is so swift, I don’t see it coming. She wields the hook like a razor, slashing across the piece and brashly ripping an entire section out. Hundreds of shimmering threads hang off the hook, and she beckons for the burly
officer
.

‘Take these – and the others – to storage, and inform the Spinster on duty that we need an emergency patch.’ She hands the hook to him nonchalantly. No one else speaks; we only stare.

I try to bite my tongue, but the flood of hot anger rising up my body and into my cheeks prevents it. ‘That was unnecessary.’

‘I told you that even one weak thread was a danger.’ Maela frowns and shakes her head in a gesture meant to convey sympathy. Or perhaps remorse. Neither is believable.

‘Do you want to be responsible for a tragedy?’ she asks me, her gaze travelling around the room. The question is rhetorical, but several of the girls shake their heads.

‘If we fail to do our job, we compromise everything that’s been built,’ she continues, and as she stares me down, she turns a tiny knob on the side of the loom. The weave before us, mangled and torn open, begins to shift into clearer focus. At first it looks like a piece of cloth, intricately woven, stretching across the machine, but as she zooms in and adjusts the visual it becomes a town. It’s as though I’m looking at a map with a hole in it, and then she clicks the wheel another notch and it becomes a street view. A perfect tree-lined lane, much like the one at home, leading up to a building, an academy. There is the arch of a doorway and the brick façade of the entrance and then nothing. The rest of the building is gone, simply ripped away, leaving bits of bricks tumbling and disappearing into an abyss. It just isn’t there any more.

I haven’t been able to grasp what she’s done until now. Seeing the weave in tapestry form couldn’t call up the
anger
this image did. This for a lesson? And what have we learned? That Maela is a psycho. Sure, I could have guessed that. Is this why they need cleaning technology, to sweep away the actions of people like her? Is she who we need to forget?

She keeps her violet eyes on me, until the hint of a smile flits across her face. She doesn’t allow it to settle there long enough for anyone but me to notice. ‘I think we’re done for today.’

I glance back at Pryana, who may be my friend now. I’ve saved
her
at least, if only for the moment. Her face says it all – she’s not ready for this. As eager as she was to become a Spinster, it’s clear she didn’t expect this. But if I’m being honest, I didn’t either.

‘Pryana, you are excused,’ Maela says. ‘In light of the situation, it wouldn’t be fair.’

Pryana’s coffee eyes echo the alarm I feel.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Maela simpers, squeezing Pryana’s shoulder.

‘What loss?’ The girl’s voice is so low, Maela looks at her like she can’t hear.

I speak up instead, my mouth dry. ‘She asked, what loss?’

‘Unfortunately –’Maela lingers on the word – ‘this piece is from the academy in Cypress.’

Pryana gasps as her eyes dart to the spot, trying to read the brilliant web.

‘I can’t imagine much of it is left.’ Maela offers an apologetic look and then turns to whisper to Erik.

‘My sister attends the academy in Cypress,’ Pryana says quietly.

Everyone is watching her now, but her eyes stay fixed on the mutilated piece. A few of the other girls glance over at me. When Pryana lifts her eyes, she looks directly at me.

‘You killed her.’

I’m fairly positive Maela expects
her
to kill
me.
I’m certainly bracing for it when a pair of firm hands grip my arms. Erik is pulling me away to safety.

We walk swiftly until we reach the stone hallway I was led from only yesterday. There Erik slows and loosens his grip on me. I look up to catch him grinning at me. He’s all business in his dark, trim suit, carefully shaved and groomed. Only his wild blond hair and lopsided smirk belie his professionalism. He’s younger than I thought. In total fairness, I’ve been half-drugged or half-starved during our previous meetings. Still, I can’t help wondering if he’s as dangerous as his boss.

‘Did I miss a joke?’ I ask.

‘Oh, you were there,’ Erik assures me, still grinning. ‘You sure know how to get under Maela’s skin. I’ve never seen her lose it like that.’

‘You have a strange sense of humour.’ I think back to Maela’s perfect calm, broken by a single, disastrous moment of fury. But perhaps even then she was in control, her anger precise in its purpose, turning Pryana against me.

‘Why didn’t you do it?’ he asks.

‘It wasn’t necessary. That thread was strong,’ I answer without hesitation.

‘But the Guild has a purpose in asking for its removal,’ Erik argues, dropping my arm altogether.

‘Do they?’ I ask, and then wish I hadn’t. I’m sure that everything I say to him will be reported straight back to Maela, especially if it sounds like I’m questioning things. But if he’s got a response to my scepticism, he doesn’t share it.

We stop at a towering oak door, and he jostles it open.

‘Do you want the penny tour?’ he offers, his blue eyes twinkling a bit.

I take a look around the empty stone cell and shake my head. ‘I’ve been here before, but thanks anyway.’

‘Well, I’ll check on you later,’ he says, stepping back into the hall.

‘I can’t wait.’

‘I know.’ Erik shoots me a wink as he pulls the large door closed.

The first thing I notice is the toilet. I must have done something to deserve this slight improvement in my imprisonment, but I’m not sure what. Regardless, it’s small comfort. I know now I’ll die here. Maybe not in this cell, but somewhere in the Coventry. It should bother me more than it does. But rather than focus on my own fate, here in the dark, I think of my mother and Amie. Here in this cell without the blinding lamps and overbearing colour of the compound, I can sketch them in my mind. The way my mother chewed her lipstick off when she was concentrating. Or how Amie would tell me, down to the colour of their socks, what every girl in her class wore to academy and who got in trouble for talking during quiet hour. The blackness lets me imagine we’re back in my room, giggling at how Yuna Landew got called out of class to be interrogated about her purity. Of course, that part doesn’t seem so funny to me any more.

Now that I know how far the Guild will go to prove a point, I wonder what really happened to Yuna. Maybe she played dumb better than I can. I should have known Maela’s little test wasn’t aimed at weeding out the weak girls so much as testing my loyalty. Hundreds are dead because of me. And who have I ‘saved’? An elderly teacher or a terminally ill child?

Just as I’m sinking into total hopelessness, the door to my cell creaks open. I start when I realise that it’s the strange boy with the disappointed eyes, bringing my meal.

‘Miss me that much?’ he teases, setting the tray down near me. I’ve been huddling in a corner that feels warmer than the rest of the cell.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I have a fetish for cold prison floors.’

‘Fetish? Big word.’ He raises one eyebrow at me, challenging me to explain how a pure Eligible knows a word like that.

I want to tell him that unlike the other simpering idiots here I’ve actually read a book or two in my life, but no matter how much it might impress him, I keep the information locked in my head and glare up at him. It’s not a very impressive glare, because something about the smirk he’s trying to hide at my wounded expression makes me feel silly and excited and happy all at the same time.

To my surprise, he crosses the cell and drops down beside me.

‘Thought I warned you to play dumb,’ he says with a lowered voice.

‘Guess I didn’t listen,’ I retort with a shrug.

‘You’ll get yourself killed.’ He sounds resigned as though he knows I don’t care any more.

‘I’m dead already. We all are.’

‘Death is peaceful,’ he growls. ‘This half-life is worse.’

He’s less grimy than before but still unshaved and rough, and he hasn’t bothered to tie back his curly brown hair. He’s nothing like my dad or my friends’ fathers or even the guards here at the compound. It’s this coarseness that sets him apart from the well-groomed men of Arras I know. But it’s the penetrating way he watches me that makes me catch my breath when our eyes meet.

‘You’re a lot cleaner than the last time I saw you,’ I point out, and immediately wish I could take it back.

‘I don’t waste my time on manicures like some men,’ he says lightly.

I assume he’s taking a shot at Erik, but then again my dad kept his nails clean, too.

‘So you don’t shave. You don’t get manicures. What do you do?’

‘I keep this place running,’ he says, as though that’s enough of an answer.

‘And?’ I push.

‘Technically I’m the head valet, which means I communicate between the staff and the Spinsters. I make sure things run smoothly. I got the call that you were to be taken to the salons and thought I’d check you out.’

I bite my lip and nod.

‘What?’ he asks. ‘Oh, I guess I was pretty unkempt when we met, even for me. I had been gardening. It’s the one thing I do just for me. I like the feeling of soil. It’s honest labour.’

‘My grandmother gardened,’ I say. ‘A long time ago, before you had to have a permit. She said the same thing.’

‘Stupid Guild,’ he says. ‘I bet she missed it. I’m lucky I can bend the rules here. Everyone is too busy controlling the outside world to care.’

‘How come you aren’t dead?’ I ask. ‘Or at least stuck in a cell? I haven’t heard a word from you yet that isn’t treasonous.’

‘Unlike you, I pay attention to who I’m talking to. I have a special traitor filter I use around others.’ He gives me a tired smile that belongs to someone much older.

‘So why me?’

‘’Cause you ran,’ he responds simply.

‘I can’t be the first Eligible who ever ran.’ I shake my head at the impossibility that no one else has ever tried to escape the Coventry.

‘No, but you’re special.’

‘Yeah, what makes me different? Or do you talk treason with all the flighty girls?’ I realise that I’m flirting with him, and I’m surprised at how comfortable it feels.

‘They didn’t kill you.’ The playful mood dissipates immediately. It’s clear that he’s not joking.

‘Well, I guess it’s good to be different,’ I mutter.

Neither of us laughs.

‘Why?’ I ask after a moment.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why not kill me? I ran. My parents tried to hide me. Why leave me alive?’ I ask earnestly, and he turns away.

‘I have my theories.’

‘And they are?’ I press.

‘I’m not sure you’re ready to hear them yet.’

‘That’s sort of condescending. Telling me only what you think I’m ready to hear,’ I point out, annoyed as much by it as by his lack of transparency.

‘I thought it was endearing, me looking out for you.’ He grins, and the mood in the dark cell lightens again.

‘Are you trying to endear yourself to me?’

‘I have a thing for traitors.’

‘How do you know I’m a traitor anyway?’ I ask. ‘Maybe everyone is wasting their time worrying about me.’

‘You’re in the cells for the second time in a week and you’re still alive.’ He squints against the dark as if to get a clearer look at my face. ‘Either Maela is breaking in her new pet, or you’ve got something they want.’

‘Like an attitude?’

‘Maela is all stocked up on that.’ He snorts. ‘If you could lie low and not draw so much attention to yourself, we might actually be able to find out, Adelice.’

‘See, that’s our problem,’ I point out.

‘What? Your inability to keep a low profile?’ he asks.

‘No, the fact that I don’t even know your name. How am I supposed to trust you?’

‘Josten.’ He smiles all the way up through his eyes. ‘But traitors call me Jost.’

‘Nice to meet you, Jost.’ I stretch out a hand and immediately regret it because the change in position makes me shiver.

‘Here.’ He shrugs off a simple, threadbare jacket and wraps it around me. ‘Unfortunately, I’ll have to take that when I go. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see me giving gifts to the prisoners. It might detract from
my
low profile.’

The jacket is soft and smells like woodsmoke and cut lavender. I nod, grateful for its warmth if only for a few moments.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I say. ‘They’re probably watching me.’

‘The good news is that they don’t bother to keep an eye on the cells. Poor light, stone walls – what’s the point?’ He gestures around us. ‘The bad news is that you’re right. They’re definitely keeping tabs on you.’

‘So why are you here then? What help can I be to you if I’m already under suspicion?’

‘That’s true, but no one comes down here, so it’s easy enough for us to chat if you keep getting thrown in the cell,’ he points out.

‘Of course,’ I agree. ‘But that won’t really help me lie low now, will it?’

‘Yep, it’s a no-win situation,’ he says. ‘I’m actually only here today because Erik had lapdog duties.’

‘Erik sent you?’

‘The pretty blond that just threw you in here.’

‘I know who he is, and he is pretty, but why send you now?’

‘It’s my job to keep the Spinsters happy and fed, so pretty boy sent me. Sorry to disappoint you, but please tell me you have better taste than him.’

‘I’m not marrying him. He’s just well-groomed,’ I assure Jost. ‘But lapdogs usually are.’

‘Case in point.’ Jost fingers the hem of my tailored skirt.

‘I think I’m failing at being a lapdog.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he says. ‘So I’ll remind you of my earlier advice: play dumb.’

‘That’s easier said than done.’

‘Ob-vi-ous-ly.’ He stretches out the word. ‘But it’s important if you want to live. Maela may have a use for you, but she’s not sentimental enough to keep you around indefinitely.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re going to have to trust me for a bit on that.’

‘Just so long as your reasons are as vague and menacing as theirs are,’ I mutter.

‘Ouch.’ Jost frowns. ‘I may not tell you everything, but my interests are in line with your own.’

He straightens back up, and I shrug the jacket off and hand it to him. ‘Thank you.’

‘It was nothing.’ He waves my thanks away as he puts his jacket on.

‘Not for the jacket.’ I struggle to put into words how I feel. ‘For the company.’

‘Also nothing. Take my advice, Ad.’ This time the cockiness is gone and the nickname wraps around me like his jacket – soft and comfortable. I feel warmer. ‘They’ll let you go soon. Try to stay out of trouble.’

Jost leaves me in the darkness, and I continue to wait, turning over his words in my mind. He’s being too honest with me. Either he knows something that makes him trust me more than he should, or . . . I stop myself there. I don’t want to consider his other possible motive.

Knowing they aren’t watching me here relaxes me. I fiddle with the time around me. If only there was a spot of heat in this room, I could weave warmth, or maybe even light.

The food at my feet is stale and cold. A tough bit of bread and thin soup. It’s food to keep me alive and not much more. I could weave and stretch it, but I have to work with the materials I have, and more of this food wouldn’t be much of an upgrade. Then I remember promising my parents that I would never stretch food again, and I falter.

It wasn’t like I did anything wrong. I was only nine years old, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I guess I thought I was helping. Each month my mother allotted a small portion of our rations to sweets. It never went very far, and then one month, the co-op had no sweets available. Mom explained that there was a shortage of sugar supplies and put the few bits of chocolate from the previous month in the highest cabinet, with the admonishment that we’d save them for my father’s birthday. It’s not that I didn’t want to save the chocolate for Dad. It was that I couldn’t let Amie get in trouble.

Ever since I’d discovered I could touch the weave in our yard, I’d studied it, although I’d rarely touched it. But when Amie came home from academy crying because she’d taken some of the chocolate to class and been caught with it, I decided I had to do something.

Most days Amie and I walked home from academy together, but that day I had been kept behind after class was dismissed. I’d been daydreaming, which my teacher said was pointless.

‘What will your boss think if he catches you staring at the sky instead of doing your work?’ she had asked in a cold voice.

I kept my eyes trained on the floor as she berated me, and by the time it was over, anger and humiliation burned in my chest. And then to make it even worse, Amie hadn’t waited for me to walk home.

By the time I got to our house, I’d focused my rage on Amie for leaving me behind. I was so mad that I didn’t notice how her lower lip trembled at first. But when she saw me she burst into tears, and my anger dissipated.

‘What happened?’ I asked her quietly.

Amie shook her head.

‘You can tell me anything,’ I pushed.

Amie hesitated for a moment, but then began telling me about her day. Between her sobs, I pieced together what had happened. One of her friends had demanded that they each bring a piece of chocolate to academy that day. It was a game to see who would have the biggest piece, and poor Amie knew Mom wouldn’t give her any. So she took it instead.

‘I wasn’t going to eat it,’ Amie told me. ‘I was going to show it to them, and bring it home. I didn’t want to be left out.’

‘It’s okay, Ames,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘Go wash your face, and I’ll see if I can find some.’

She turned the full force of her pale green eyes on me then, and I saw the tears glistening.

‘But I looked. There’s only a tiny piece left,’ she whispered.