Crewel

by Gennifer Albin

  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.

  ‘No,’ Enora says in a heavy voice. ‘Her work is delicate and time-consuming. She rarely interacts with anyone but the officials and highest-ranked Spinsters. There’s a lot you’ll have to learn about how things work here, Adelice.’

  Somehow this doesn’t surprise me, but I hold back the comment I want to make.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have a lot of questions,’ I say instead. I want her to like me. I need allies here, but her dismissal leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  ‘I can’t blame you. It’s been a difficult transition for you.’ She stumbles on ‘transition’, and I realise how inadequate it sounds. With a full belly and a warm fire, it’s been easy to forget my initial imprisonment, but now doubt creeps back up my spine and down through my limbs, shooting a chill along my nerves. I hate myself for forgetting what they did to me – to my whole family – after two hot meals and a night of luxury.

  Enora glides over and waves me to my feet. Moments later she’s fussily holding up ensembles, one after another, and muttering and sighing her disapproval. I see silk and satin, and each outfit looks skimpier than the last. I was never allowed to wear anything so revealing back home. It wouldn’t have been proper for me to show my arms, let alone my flat chest. Between my guilt and my complete fear of anything without sleeves, I begin cracking my knuckles. Enora notices and leads me to the bathroom. My mom used to do the same thing – distract me when I was upset. Now that the Valpron has long worn off, I feel a constant throbbing ache when I think of my family. With the clutching pain of hunger loosened, it’s become more acute. Almost unbearable.

  ‘Enora,’ I whisper, as she waves her hand over the switch scan, ‘do you know what happened to my family?’

  Enora gives me a slight shake of the head, but I can see the understanding in her eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can find out, but, for now, you need to get ready for orientation.’

  The bathroom is every bit as oversized and decadent as my sleeping chamber. At one end, a small station with an aesthetician’s chair waits ominously. I can only imagine how many hours I’ll waste being fussed over there. The rest of the room is tiled in marble and porcelain. In the centre sits a large bath with small marble steps and benches carved along its edges. I could easily swim in it. It’s already full and I wonder how this has been taken care of without my knowledge, like so many things here at the Coventry. I’m not sure I want to know the answer. There are no taps or spouts easily accessible, but I dip my toe gingerly at the edge and discover it’s hot. The thought of heat soaking into my skin is so tempting. I’m pretty sure I would sell my soul for a bath after the nights in the cell.

  ‘Your profile indicated that you liked water, so this was created for you.’ Enora points to the extravagant pool. ‘And you were appointed an ocean
view.’

  ‘I would have been fine with a shower stall,’ I mutter.

  ‘We could arrange to have it changed . . .’ she says, a smirk playing on her lips, but I quickly shake my head, recalling the cramped old tub in my family’s one bathroom.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say.

  ‘I thought it would be.’ She chuckles and takes my arm, shepherding me to the chair at the far end. ‘Valery is here to work on you.’

  I sigh and flop down in the chair, resigned to my fate. Valery is almost as beautiful as Enora or Maela. But her features are Eastern in origin, her eyes sloping elegantly around toffee irises. Even in her heels, she’s much smaller than the rest of us. I’m beginning to understand why Spinsters are so finely polished. They could never allow other, inferior women to be more beautiful than they are. Staring at the number of prep tools on the cart next to me, I can’t help wondering how much time they waste in pursuit of perfection.

  After an hour of lining and curling and spraying, Enora brings in her final choice for today’s outfit – a peacock-green suit that puffs at the sleeves and tapers to my knees. It is at once perfectly understated and completely unmissable. I slip into it and then grip the post of my bed while Enora hands me a pump.

  ‘Wrong foot,’ I say, passing it back to her. ‘Left first, please.’

  She gives it to me with a raised eyebrow. ‘Superstitious? I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘Not superstitious.’ I shake my head. ‘My grandmother always told me to put my left shoe on first, because my left leg’s stronger than my right. Easier to stand on one heel.’ I slide on the shoe and demonstrate my perfect balance.

  ‘Are you left-handed as well?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, my grandmother was, too.’ The memory of her tugs at me; it’s an old sadness, more of a ghost than an ache, although it pulls harder on me here than it has for years. It’s different from the hot, panicked grief I feel for the rest of my family.

  Enora hands me my other shoe, and Valery pushes me towards the mirror. The image is not the shock it was yesterday, but this girl with the brilliant hair and bright eyes is not me. I’m simply dressed in someone else’s skin.

  Valery and Enora stand behind me like proud parents. My new mentor places a hand gently on my shoulder. ‘You’re stunning, Adelice.’

  ‘This isn’t me,’ I say, watching the strange scarlet lips move.

  ‘It is now,’ Enora whispers firmly. I can hear in her voice the same tone I use with Amie when I know what’s best for her, even when it’s something she hates, like brussel sprouts. I wonder if she has anyone watching over her now. I feel the panic creeping from my belly into my throat, but my reflection doesn’t change.

  Now that I’m dressed, Enora escorts me to my first training class. I try to memorise the route – what my hall looks like, which floor to choose on the lift – on the off-chance that I’m ever allowed to move around the compound alone. We don’t pass through the same sterile hallway we used yesterday. Instead she guides me out into a beautiful garden surrounded by the high towered walls of the Coventry. Sunlight radiates down on us directly, creating a bright spot in the centre of a concrete fortress. Palm trees shade small, prickly pines. Animals scamper peacefully at my feet. It is the most wild – but tame – place I’ve ever been. Just when I’m sure it’s all screens like the ones in my room, reflecting a pre-programmed code, I spy him and a thrill sends my heart into my throat.

  Crouched next to a wheelbarrow and wiping his forehead with a simple rag, there he is: the boy from the cells. A gardener, an escort? What other jobs does he occupy here and why? He glances up as we pass, and then he looks more closely, and I feel a tense energy fill the space between us – the force of it almost palpable. He’s taking in my vibrant tailored suit and new face. He looks puzzled for a moment, then something darker flickers across his face. It’s not anger or hatred. It’s not even lust.

  It’s disappointment.

  5

  Enora pushes past the young man and hurries me along to another tower door on the far side of the garden. I fight the urge to turn back to him. What would I do? Apologise? Explain myself? What did he expect? Did he think I was going to set fire to the compound and run away, hungry and cold?

  ‘Adelice.’ Enora’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Try to pay closer attention during your orientation,’ she says with a sigh, ushering me inside the other wing of the compound.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ I struggle with exactly how to express my confused feelings about the boy in the garden. ‘Why are there boys here?’

  ‘There are a lot of tasks we can’t do for ourselves,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  I give a slight nod, but I can’t quite hide the fact that I don’t buy it.

  ‘Spinsters have important work to do,’ Enora says, lowering her voice. ‘The men make sure everything around here functions, and . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see she’s making a choice.

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘They’re security,’ she finishes.

  ‘Are we in danger?’ I ask in surprise.

  ‘Us? No,’ she says, and there’s bitter edge to her voice. ‘The Guild isn’t keen on a compound made up entirely of women.’

  Enora wasn’t lying when she said she’d answer my questions, but I’m taken back by the trust she’s shown me already. Considering she knows my biggest secret, I suppose it makes sense.

  ‘You’ll be with the rest of the Eligibles today. Make friends,’ she says, changing the subject to the task at hand.

  ‘It’s the first day of academy all over again,’ I mutter, eyeing the gaggle of women gathered around a large oak door.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, taking my shoulders in her tiny hands and directing my eyes back to hers. ‘But you’ll live with these girls for the rest of your life.’

  I swallow hard. Academy doesn’t seem so long ago, and yet the faces of the girls in my class are slipping away. It was one long beauty contest, each girl treading a fine line, maintaining the purity standards expected of Eligibles, while doing everything in her power to outshine the rest. Every week, someone had discovered something close to, but not quite, a cosmetic. I hadn’t been very good at gushing and primping. Pinch my cheeks? No thanks. Cosmetics and beauty treatments might be a reward for good behaviour growing up, and necessary when finally stepping into the less segregated work world, but here they feel like an even bigger joke than purity standards. As though we’ll be happy to waste away behind locked doors if we can look pretty.

  Making my way to join the group, I try to maintain a neutral expression. We’re crowded in a plain hallway, waiting for the door in front of us to open. But the other girls, having broken into several smaller groups, maintain a steady stream of chatter with one another. It’s a motley group – a lithe girl with delicately braided oil-black hair; another with skin the colour of rich coffee, her hair short and waved close to her scalp; girls with platinum hair and tailored blouses. I wonder if they are excited or nervous. If they have sold their souls for large bathtubs and fireplaces. If they’ll do anything the Guild asks of them.

  Two young officers usher us into a vast, open space filled with rows and rows of carefully placed chairs pointed towards a blank white wall. We file in and take our seats. The other girls sit together, giggling and chattering. I watch as a blonde girl reaches to touch the hair of the girl next to her. They’re so familiar with one another. These girls weren’t kept in cells, and they’ve obviously spent time together before now. I’ve missed a lot in the last few days.

  The girl with oil-black hair drops into the chair next to mine. I can smell a rich hint of coconut drifting from her. Up close her skin is tawny, and her long legs stream past her pencil skirt. She must be half a foot taller than me at least – without heels. I can’t help but feel a little jealous of her exotic beauty as well as how relaxed she is in her new role. To my surprise she turns to speak to me. ‘They’ve broken
us into two groups. You’re in mine.’

  ‘Do I look lost?’ I ask with a sheepish grin.

  ‘No, you look overwhelmed,’ she responds. ‘It’s easy to tell you’re new, because most of us room together.’

  I lower my voice to match hers: ‘Together?’

  ‘Not everyone gets her own room.’ She grins, displaying a dazzling white smile set against chocolate lips.

  ‘I’m sorry, you seem to have me at an advantage,’ I say, curious as to how this girl knows me or my situation. ‘I’m Adelice.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘My name is Pryana, and my mother was a maid in a small hotel for businessmen. She taught me that if you want to know the best gossip, you should get to know your maids. And right now, the best gossip around involves you.’

  I think of the girls and boys bringing me food, stoking my fire, delivering my clothes, and feel like an elitist snob. I’m sure that’s how I come off to them – an eager young Eligible hungry for power. It never occurred to me that they could be sources of information. Or that they were watching me.

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘Well, be careful,’ Pryana says, dropping her voice even further so that our conversation is lost among the flurry of gossip. ‘At your level, they pay more attention to who they have attending you. And with your history—’

  ‘My level?’

  ‘Girl, do you think we are all living in the lap of luxury? Do not get me wrong, I am very pleased with my current situation. But everyone in the Coventry wonders what landed a simple Eligible in the high tower.’

  ‘I clearly need to befriend a maid,’ I mutter. My mind is swimming with this new information. I have a pretty good idea why I’m getting special treatment, and it has nothing to do with favouritism.

  Pryana gives me a sceptical look, unconvinced I’m the innocent I claim to be. But if she’s going to press the matter, she doesn’t get the chance because a brilliant display of colour lights up the blank wall we face. It fades in along the edges and gradually forms into the shape of a woman. The vlip is holographic, giving it the appearance of three dimensions. As though the woman were in the room with us, and not a mere recording.