Crewel

by Gennifer Albin

‘She isn’t interested in the rest of us,’ Maela spits. ‘And at her advanced age, she’s been in bed for hours.’

  I nod and mentally sort through all the comebacks I could make. In the end, I opt for silence.

  ‘Spinning is delicate work,’ she purrs, and I notice for the first time how quiet the room is without the hum of the loom. ‘I know you are aware of that.’

  I feel my jaw tighten. All I’ve ever seen is Maela mutilating Arras – and she’s going to give me tips?

  ‘You must approach your work with precision and delicacy, regardless of what is going on beyond this room,’ she continues. ‘We call this a stress test.’

  She turns, but looks past me, and I follow her gaze. For the first time I notice a large oak loom with thick steel strands stretched across it. It’s nothing like the modern automated machines I’ve been training on. There’s a crudeness to it. The wood is warped and scratched, and the small bench that accompanies it is made of a solid piece of unfinished tree stump. This isn’t going to be comfortable.

  ‘If you are gentle, you can weave anything,’ she murmurs, beckoning me to take a seat on the stump. ‘How else can a Spinster weave time? It’s so precious. Once we had no control over time. It slipped right through our fingers. No power over death or famine or disease. And then science gave us weaving. But if we are not careful we could lose the control we have now.’

  I’ve had enough of this patronising charade. ‘Is this because of what happened between Erik and me?’

  Maela’s nostrils flare and she moves away from me. ‘This exercise,’ she continues, bypassing my question altogether, ‘will teach you delicacy and control.’

  She leans toward the loom and deftly, but very softly, fingers a steel line. It pings as she releases it. Taking a thin wirelike thread, she gracefully weaves it through the steel cables on the loom. In. Out. In. Out. Until she yelps and draws her index finger up to her mouth, wincing.

  I want to ask her what’s wrong, but it seems bad form since we’re enemies and everything, so I wait until she removes her finger. Blood blossoms from a small cut, and the nature of this test becomes clear.

  ‘This spool,’ she says, holding a large metal cylinder out to me, ‘needs to be woven through by noon.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I ask suspiciously, afraid to take the thread from her. Light glints off its coils.

  ‘That’s it.’ She presses her lips together in a smirk. ‘By noon, or you’ll be reassigned.’

  ‘I assume the ministers will need to see my work.’

  Her jaw flexes under her skin, but she maintains her composure. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I agree.

  She leaves the room, and I gingerly touch the ‘thread’. It’s razor sharp. Even more carefully, I reach out to feel the steel bands that comprise the warp of the loom. They’re almost totally rigid. Razor wire and a fake loom. She’s outdone herself this time. I’ll be lucky to have fingers at the end of this.

  My first pass goes through easily and I avoid cutting my fingertips. It makes me overconfident, and the next pass slices off the tip of my left index finger. Tears sting my eyes as air hits the open flesh. This is no minor wound, but Maela is looking for any excuse to banish to me to kitchen work or worse, so I pull on the cylinder until I have enough slack to reach the hem of my skirt and use the wire to slice a few inches off it. Cutting several smaller pieces, I wrap each of my fingers, starting with my bleeding pointer. I’ll have to adjust to my clumsy covered fingers, but I can’t leave them exposed.

  It’s slow work. Occasionally the wire catches on the tops of my hands and leaves angry streaks of blood across them, but I press on, fighting against the growing pulse from the wounds. The makeshift bandages last for a while, until the one covering my bloodied finger is soaked through and the others are in tatters. The sun is rising in the east window, and I have five hours left at most, but the spool looks untouched. Taking a deep breath, I peel off the fabric covers, except the one blocking my bleeding left index finger, and grip the wire firmly between my right index finger and thumb.

  I focus on breathing, filling my lungs completely with each inhale and then slowly releasing. Bleeding welts cover my hands, but I press on, ignoring the dizzy, light-headed feeling. And between my body expecting breakfast – stupid set mealtimes – and dripping blood everywhere, my mind drops into oblivion.

  The lack of noise in the room roars in my ears, or maybe it’s my heartbeat. There’s no clock, only the faint glow of morning light breaking in patches on my work. It reflects back off the white plastic-covered walls, heating them, so their synthetic stench fills the air in the studio, making my stomach hurt. Everything is bright, blinding in its artifice. Only my warm blood on the cold, steel lines contrasts with the harsh brilliance of the space. But despite the searing pain, I get through three-quarters of the spool before Maela returns.

  She smiles at the sight of my wounded hands. ‘You have two hours left, Adelice.’ Leaning over my work, she continues, ‘I was thinking about how rude it was for us not to give you more updates on your sister.’

  I lose my careful grip on the wire and slice a fresh cut into my palm.

  ‘It’s common for us to allow a letter or to provide some information during the initial training,’ she says, still hovering over me. ‘But we generally don’t do that for traitors.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of what you do for traitors,’ I say.

  ‘Then you already know we can be merciful,’ she replies innocently. I want to wrap the wire around her thin, pale neck.

  ‘Unfortunately, your parents committed treason, and of course there was the issue of the contraband found in your house,’ she tells me, ‘so your parents have been removed.’

  ‘Cormac told me,’ I respond. But even though I already knew, I feel the heat of tears when I blink. I have no energy to fight them.

  ‘I see. You also know that your sister, as a minor, was rewoven. You know she’s in Cypress, where many of our finest Eligibles are found each year. As she probably shares your talent, she’s likely to prove useful to us in the future. We’re keeping a very close eye on her.’

  ‘Amie doesn’t have any skill,’ I murmur, willing it to be true. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Maela assures me as she lights a cigarette. ‘We need to keep track of her for you. The Guild’s newest prize needs to be kept happy.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I barely knew her,’ I lie. ‘We’re not very close in age, and she was always more concerned with being popular and keeping up on the current phases.’ As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I want to swallow it back.

  But I can tell from the way Maela’s eyebrow shoots up that this info delights her. ‘You two are different then. Maybe she’ll have what she needs to succeed as a Spinster when her time comes, if that’s what she wants.’

  Wants? I hesitate. ‘And her new family?’ I think of the paranoid look in her adoptive mother’s eyes.

  ‘You saw her new mother. They’re an excellent, loyal family,’ she says. ‘There are an unfortunate number of couples who are childless, so orphans are often rewoven into other sections to those deserving people.’

  The wire’s buried half an inch in my thumb before I realise how hard I’m clenching it. I don’t know why I’m stopping myself. No one would miss Maela.

  ‘Thanks for the update. I have a lot left to do.’ I force myself to return to the work, and I hear the soft click of the door closing behind her.

  When Maela saunters into the room at noon, she practically chokes on her cigarette to find me done. ‘I guess I didn’t give you enough thread,’ she says in a low voice. ‘You look like you got bored.’

  ‘Maybe I’m as talented as you don’t want me to be,’ I counter, keeping my eyes level with hers and ignoring the woozy shakiness spreading through my body. If she thought her diversion would sidetrack me, she was mistaken. ‘Will someone be coming to check my work?’

  Maela’s eyes narrow, but she sp
eaks in a normal voice. ‘Of course. Later.’

  ‘Let me know what they think,’ I say as arrogantly as I can, while bleeding profusely. My terse new escort takes me back to my quarters, and I try not to drip blood on the high tower’s expensive rugs.

  There’s no one waiting in my room. Not even Enora, who I fully expected to descend on me as soon as I entered. So I let myself cry, my tears washing down along the blood soaking my skirt. I can’t bring myself to examine my hands, and a search of my cavernous bathroom yields no medical supplies. I finally call on the companel to ask for bandages and a doctor. Neither request is denied.

  An eternity later someone raps at my door. I don’t know who it could be. No one knocks here. The maid, kitchen staff, my aestheticians – all of them enter and exit at their convenience. So for the first time I discover my door has a peephole. Peering through the tiny circle of glass I’m greeted by a single electric-blue eye. For a moment, I freeze. It could be Erik or Jost, and I realise I’m not sure which one of them I want to see more, or if it’s even safe to let either of them in. But finally I take a deep breath and open the door.

  13

  Maela wouldn’t knowingly send me the one person I might be both dying to see and wanting to avoid, but it would be the evil icing on the cake to have Jost attend me. Does he know I’m being punished for kissing Erik? Or maybe he’s just been thinking about me, too. The idea that he might want to see me sends my pulse racing so fast that my mutilated fingers throb. Now might not be the time to worry about this. He’s seen me looking worse, so I instruct him to come in, anyway. Jost’s head is turned away from the open door.

  I clear my throat to get his attention. ‘I’m not naked, you know.’

  ‘I’ll try to be less polite in the future,’ he says.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask as I gingerly wrap a clean towel around my bleeding hands.

  ‘You sent for medical help.’ He holds up a small medic bag.

  ‘Exactly. They don’t have a clinic here?’ Realising my exasperation might be misinterpreted – because I’d much rather be here with him than on an exam table – I quickly add, ‘I’m glad you make house calls, but what is your job anyway?’

  ‘I do the dirty work, remember? I’m trained to do basic medical patching. If you aren’t dying, you get me. The clinic is reserved for other things.’ His tone implies there’s more to the story, but I can’t handle any more information right now. I make a mental note to bring this up later when I’m not bleeding profusely.

  ‘So your job is to clean up after me?’ I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at him. Unfortunately, the small shift makes me extremely dizzy.

  Jost catches me in time. ‘Exactly.’

  He helps me to the large floor cushions and takes my hands carefully. His own are warm and rough against my wrist as he inspects mine. His soft touch isn’t doing much to help me with the light-headedness, but I couldn’t care less.

  ‘Do I want to know what happened?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Maela has taken a shine to me.’

  ‘What happened to a low profile?’ Jost asks, with a follow-up groan to seal his disapproval.

  ‘I’m tall.’

  Despite his clear frustration, he smiles just a little. ‘Let’s clean these up. You know we’re going to need to wash this off,’ he says, taking my elbow and helping me to my feet. Apparently I’m not funny. But if I can’t tease Jost, I’m not sure what to do with him.

  In the bathroom he turns the tap on full blast. The rushing water echoes off the marble. ‘There,’ he says, and I give him a quizzical look, but he just takes my hands. Instead of pushing them under the rushing tap, he cups some water in his left hand and pours it over my wounds, tenderly wiping away the blood. I’m used to people doing things for me by now – my hair and cosmetics, even dressing me – but Jost caring for me reminds me of my mother watching over me when I was ill. The ache spreading in my chest is anything but homesickness though.

  Opening the pouch he brought, he takes out a small pot of salve. ‘This is going to sting.’

  ‘I’ve managed worse.’ But as he applies it to the open cuts, I regret my bravado. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from yelping.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asks kindly.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I admit, sucking in a long breath to distract myself. ‘So the Guild has you healing Spinsters in addition to your valet duties? Exactly why are you here?’

  He leans closer to me and whispers against my ear, ‘Did you think we could talk in your room? I don’t need the Guild to know why I’m here.’

  ‘I guess I didn’t expect . . .’ My mind no longer forms full thoughts as his breath hits my neck.

  ‘A real answer?’ He pulls back, breaking the spell.

  ‘A controversial one,’ I admit finally. ‘I thought you were a regular working drudge.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘That’s only mildly insulting.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be.’

  ‘I know. I guess I’m better at fitting in than I thought,’ he says, wrapping gauze around my cleaned hands. ‘What’s this?’

  He trails a finger along the techprint on my wrist, and I’m not sure what to tell him. ‘A relic from a past life,’ I say with a sigh. ‘My father printed me before . . .’

  Jost tips his head ever so slightly to show he knows and I don’t have to say the words, even though they echo and roar in my head: before he died.

  ‘Why an hourglass?’ he asks, studying the mark.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I murmur, extremely conscious of his touch. ‘It’s supposed to remind me who I am.’

  ‘Is it working?’ he breathes, staring into my eyes.

  ‘I suppose.’ I watch him and weigh my thoughts. ‘Why are you here, Jost? Serving the Coventry, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t even know how to begin to answer that,’ he says, starting on my other hand.

  ‘At the beginning?’ I suggest quietly. He looks up and his usually bright eyes are hollow.

  ‘I had a family once.’ He pauses and turns his attention back to my hands. ‘Now I don’t.’

  The space between us is shrinking, but I’m only now seeing the wide gulf that existed before. ‘How did it happen?’ I ask.

  ‘I was married when I was sixteen to a girl from my town. Our metro doesn’t segregate much in the pretesting years, and we made certain she’d be dismissed from eligibility.’

  I blush at his confession but try to laugh off my discomfort. Something twists in my chest at this revelation. I don’t like that he was married. Not one bit. Even if he isn’t any more. ‘Sixteen? I thought eighteen was bad.’ As soon as I say it, I regret it.

  ‘Yes, sixteen.’ And to my relief, he laughs. ‘I’d known her since we were children. We lived in a small village, Saxun, which straddles the Western and Southern Sectors. I come from a long line of fishermen. It’s such a small town that assignments are dictated by family trade, and since my brother got a border pass out of town, I was the only one who could take over my father’s boat.’

  ‘So you weren’t given a role?’ The monthly assignment day was a major event in Romen town. Mostly it was for filling any needs in the metro, and occasionally someone might be sent to a neighbouring metrocentre, but once in a while the Guild would fill a position within the Coventry or various sector departments, which meant a border pass. It almost always went to a boy, but the whole town lived for the possibility of it. No one missed assignment day.

  ‘You know, if you have a lot of money or none at all, it works differently,’ he tells me wryly. ‘The system doesn’t apply to you in quite the same way.’

  ‘Romen was the third largest town in the Western Sector,’ I say. ‘It was the kind of town where everything was average – houses, assignments, people.’

  ‘The middle is what the Guild thrives on.’

  ‘So, you were married before you came here?’ I try to sound casual, but I’m feeling a bit out of my
league, and I don’t want him to hear the jealousy in my voice.

  He nods and begins to dress my hands. ‘Her name was Rozenn. She lived with her father and her brother. I was working to buy a new boat and . . .’ He pauses as though skipping past something too painful to share, but he continues, his voice barely audible over the water. ‘I should have known something was wrong, but it never occurred to me.’

  I lay a bandaged hand on his shoulder and his rigid muscles soften.

  ‘Her brother, Parrick. He was a loner, unhappy with his assignment, uninterested in girls. Rapidly approaching eighteen. I tolerated him because he became my family when I married Rozenn, but the two were opposites. She was a day in spring. Everything about her was vital. Parrick stuck out the same way, but only because he was cold. He could suck the joy out of a conversation. People didn’t like being around him. I didn’t like being around him,’ he admits. ‘I couldn’t understand why he was so distant and isolated.

  ‘He was supposed to be apprenticing with his father, but he began taking long breaks. One day he disappeared and didn’t return until nightfall. Rozenn was worried her father was losing patience with him, so she asked me to step in. She thought I could talk to Parrick. Maybe befriend him. He didn’t want to talk to me, and I didn’t try very hard. Instead I started following him.’

  ‘Where was he going?’ I ask in a low voice, my jealousy giving way to dread.

  ‘He was meeting others – from our town and other metros near us. They talked about change and revolution. I thought about turning them in, but the stories stopped me.’

  ‘Stories?’ My voice is barely a whisper.

  ‘Horrible stories. Families wiped out, towns rewoven. They were whispered tales, shared between desperate men. I was conflicted, so I did nothing.’ Done with my hands, Jost sits on the edge of the tub. His blue eyes burn like the tip of a flame, looking out past this room into the ruins left behind him.

  ‘Did you tell your wife?’ I stumble on the word, and doubt about Jost, about being here now, creeps into my throat and sits like a lump.