Unraveled

by Gennifer Albin

  My freedom.

  My destiny.

  And Erik, who I force from my waking mind, but who haunts my dreams.

  Days pass mechanically inside the walls of the Western Coventry, because I’m a prisoner here—despite Cormac’s assurance that we are partners. It’s not the same compound I remember coming to as an Eligible. The walls are still programmed with false windows that display relaxing settings, but the actual composition of the Coventry has changed. Now the threads that comprise the walls are knit tightly together and bound through with strange, artificial strands. Strands I can’t penetrate. I wouldn’t have tried if I hadn’t been left to my own devices for so long that I’m sure I’m losing my mind.

  My quarters are more lavish than when I first came here. Two of the walls in my bedroom are programmed to look like a window overlooking the Endless Sea. I’m not sure if it’s meant to relax me or remind me I can’t escape. There are five more rooms in my apartment on the top floor of the high tower, all decorated in shades of yellow. They’re probably meant to boost my spirits, but the yellow is driving me crazy. There’s a sunny bathroom, a buttery living room, a golden dining room, a lemony closet that could fit a small house inside it, and a second powder room, small, gray—the only contrasting color—for when Cormac comes to visit me.

  I’m not allowed out among the other Spinsters, as though my rebellion is catching—a communicable disease without a cure. I suppose Cormac believes giving me a large cage to fly around in will convince me I’m free.

  My staff is always changing and always silent, obviously instructed not to speak to me. Even the aestheticians who arrive each day to curl my hair and line my eyes won’t chat with me. They go about their work without a word. Given what happened to my last aesthetician, my mentor, and my valet, I guess it’s understandable that no one trusts me. I tried to talk with them at first, hoping they would have the information I need to break Cormac, but no one in the Coventry is interested in helping me. Cormac has made sure I have no allies or friends here. No one to help me find out the one piece of vital information I need: where Cormac stays when he comes here. Catching him asleep may be the only element of surprise I have in my favor.

  I’m made up in case Cormac comes to call. It’s the only information I’ve been given about my strange daily rituals. He’s already preparing me to be the perfect wife: neat and fashionable and out of the way.

  But I can tell when he’s coming because my whole day shifts. Valets appear with decanters and freshly cut flowers. Maids scurry in and out, checking my supply of toilet paper and sweeping the pristine floor. New dresses arrive for my already stuffed closet. My only job is to pick one and stay out of the way of the gaggle of servants making way for the lord and master.

  “Lord and master” is my new nickname for Cormac. I want to say it to his face with a sneer. I fantasize about it, but I’m starting to learn the value of some advice I once received from an old friend. I’ll get more out of him if I play dumb.

  By the time he finally arrives, I’ve had to reapply my own lipstick. Cormac bursts through the door to the apartment with the air of a man who owns the place.

  He does, but it doesn’t make it any less rude.

  I watch as he loosens his bow tie, leaving it to hang askew against his unbuttoned collar. His fingers press into his temples as they often do these days. If I was meant to be a wife, I would be waiting with a cocktail poised in my hands, but I let the valet pour it. Cormac drinks longer draughts with each visit, a sign that his stress level is rising. We never talk about Arras or his job. I tried at first, but it became clear he no longer intends to utilize me or my skills. Now I’m left to play the role of the dutiful wife until I can gather the information I need to truly effect change in Arras, beginning with Cormac himself. The more secure he feels, the closer I can get to him.

  We sit across from each other at a mahogany table too long for two people. The salad arrives and I spear the tender spinach leaves with unnecessary force. He doesn’t notice.

  “Headache?” I ask him. I focus on sounding concerned, even though the question unnerves me. I can almost see the edges of him fraying away and I’m not certain if it’s actually happening or it’s my imagination.

  “I’m fine,” he snaps, taking another swig from his drink and slamming the tumbler onto the table.

  “Will you be staying long?” Despite my casual tone, my heart pounds like a drum as I ask.

  “I’ll leave in the morning.” But to my disappointment he says no more about his plans.

  “How was your week?” I ask, trying to channel my mother and how she spoke to my father at the dinner table.

  His jaw tenses and he reaches for his glass again. It’s empty and he’s dismissed the valet, which means he’ll be forced to speak to me. He twists his hands together, cracking his knuckles, each one popping ominously in the quiet room.

  “I’d rather not discuss work.”

  “But I’m so interested in your job.”

  “You want to know, Adelice?” he asks, and I nod, stunned by his offer. This is the first time he’s been willing to speak directly about the situation. “Containing the situation regarding the Eastern Sector is becoming impossible. Most of our seafood as well as paper goods traded through that sector. We’ll have to expand another sector to fulfill those needs and that means opening up new mining sites on the surface and finding more girls to work in the coventries at a time when Eligibles have become scarce.”

  “It is a shame what happened in the Eastern Sector,” I murmur.

  “I don’t deal with traitors.” There’s murder in his words.

  “Which makes me feel fortunate,” I reply in a gentle tone. I have to remind him that he can be merciful, because he seems to have forgotten.

  He ignores the comment. Of late he’s been less argumentative, less quick with his insults. If I didn’t know it was impossible, I would say his job is killing him.

  His head tilts to the side to take a complant call. This is the only way I have been able to learn things: that the rebellion on Earth is still strong, that Amie is being kept in the Northern Sector. The casual asides and conversations I overhear during our infrequent dinners paint a rough picture of what’s happening within Arras and on Earth. He often listens for long periods on these calls, nodding solemnly, and that is how I know things are slipping from his control.

  “Lobster is not my priority right now,” he snaps, angry again. “I don’t care what concerns it’s raising. If it’s that big an issue, do a full clean of the public. They can’t miss something they don’t know about.”

  Shellfish have never been so dangerous. Now everything feels like a risk. Each morsel on my tongue. Each casual joke. Perhaps it’s only because I’m close to him that I see how the questions have become fissures in his foundation. How long will it be before they cause him to crack?

  Cormac pushes his full plate away and calls for the next course. I manage a few more bites of salad before the plate is taken and a miniature tureen of soup is placed in front of me. As soon as I lift the lid, I can tell from the layer of gummy, melted cheese that it’s French onion—Cormac’s favorite. He knows I dislike it. I pick at it with my spoon.

  “You aren’t eating your soup,” he says.

  “I’m not fond of onion soup,” I say as mildly as possible. Silently I add, I hate it, and I hate you.

  “It’s a delicacy. Onions are scarce.”

  “They are? I haven’t noticed any shortage of onions.”

  “Because I ensure you don’t go without,” he says. Miraculously, he’s eaten almost his entire bowl already. I shouldn’t complain since it’s one of the few things he consumes without alcohol content. “That is my job.”

  “Our job is to do what’s right for Arras and Earth.” It’s a simple reminder, not a warning. Cormac brought me here to be his partner. I hold my gaze level with his even as he drops his spoon into the empty tureen. It clatters ominously against the porcelain.

  “I w
ondered when you’d raise this issue again.”

  “Issue?” I repeat. “Cormac, people are dying. Your own people. We need to offer them a chance. I’ve seen the mines. You know this situation isn’t sustainable—”

  “You saw the mines when you were out playing rebel, so pardon me if I ignore your anecdotal evidence.”

  “Are you telling me there isn’t a problem?”

  “I’m telling you it isn’t your place to fix it.”

  Blood roars in my ears. It’s just like Cormac to bring up my place—it’s my weakness. The one thing that I can’t pretend to tolerate. “This wasn’t our deal,” I remind him. “I came to help you, not sit around.”

  “But you’re so good at it,” he says.

  As if he knows what it’s like to pretend, to play at life every second of the day.

  Without thinking about it, I lift my full tureen and fling it across the room. The porcelain shatters against the wall, spraying stringy onion against the smooth, golden paint.

  My hands splay against the wooden table and for a moment I consider using them. I could unwind him, wipe him from existence like he casually erases those who threaten him, but I won’t make it out of here alive if I do. Cormac has collateral to ensure my good behavior, so I scratch my fingers across the wood’s grain to stem the trembling in them.

  Cormac presses the com near his end of the table, ignoring me. “Next course, and send a maid to the dining room.”

  “But then she’ll know about our domestic problems,” I say.

  “I’ll have her removed when she’s finished cleaning up your mess,” he says, and I fall back against my chair.

  This is why I’m kept alone, because I’m always screwing things up for innocent people like Jost and Enora. The maid enters the room and gawks for a split second at the wall, but she replaces her surprise with practiced indifference and goes about cleaning up the soup.

  “It slipped,” I call to her. “I’m terribly clumsy.” I keep my eyes on Cormac as I speak and he nods once like an approving master. I am but his humble servant once more, like everyone else in Arras.

  Once the maid leaves I wait for him to make the call to have her altered or removed, but he doesn’t place it. I’ve performed to his satisfaction.

  The main course is a selection of vegetables—carrots, potatoes, a squash of some sort—in a heavy tomato sauce. The first bite reveals complex tones of red wine and I savor it, before pointing out the obvious.

  “There’s no meat.”

  “I’m trying to eat less of it. Doctor’s orders,” he explains.

  “You’re immortal.”

  “I am not immortal.”

  “You’ve used other people’s time threads to stay alive for hundreds of years,” I argue.

  “That’s not immortality.”

  “What is it then?” I ask.

  “That’s privilege.”

  It must be nice to be a man.

  “And privilege allows me to choose such spirited company,” he continues.

  I smile at him. “I can throw this plate against the wall if you like.”

  “There’s been enough collateral damage for one evening, I think.”

  I shrug and pretend to pick up the plate but he doesn’t crack a smile of his own. The Cormac who could appreciate my spirited company seems to be fading with each dramatic new development in Arras. At least the old Cormac was fun to fight with. Now his behavior is unpredictable.

  “Despite your behavior this evening, I have a present for you.”

  “It’s not my birthday,” I tell him. Still no smile.

  “You missed two while you were away,” he reminds me. “I’m catching up.” Now he is smiling, acting sweet, his attitude totally reversing in seconds. I can’t wrap my head around it.

  “Does that count?”

  “I’m having it brought with the dessert course,” he says.

  “Is my present edible?” I ask. Chocolate might be worth getting excited over.

  “Generally it’s considered poor taste to eat one’s presents.”

  “Unless it’s chocolate.”

  “It’s not chocolate.”

  “Damn.”

  When they arrive with the final course, my dessert is placed in front of me. I can’t stop staring.

  But my present won’t meet my eyes.

  “Amie will be residing at the Western Coventry for the foreseeable future,” he says. I look to Amie for a sign that she’s happy about this, but she’s watching her plate.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “You said it wasn’t chocolate. There is clearly chocolate on this plate,” I say, smiling.

  “The dessert is chocolate,” he says.

  “Amie loves chocolate.” It’s the only thing I can think to say in this moment. Her eyes flicker up to me and she gives me a tentative smile as though a real one would be too costly. She can’t be here. Amie is a means of distraction.

  “I see you have that in common,” Cormac says. He gestures to the desserts in front of us—torta di cioccolato. The same as at my first meal at the Coventry. Now I’m eating it with my sister. The sister who was never supposed to wind up here.

  “It’s delicious,” Amie says in a polite, if small, voice.

  “There’s more. Don’t be shy about it,” he says. “My girls are too skinny.”

  My stomach sinks at the way he casually throws out my girls. Neither of us belongs to him, yet we’re both in his possession.

  “What else do you like to eat?” I ask Amie, at a loss for what normal conversation would consist of between us. We can’t talk about the last two years of her life, and I have no clue what lies Cormac has fed her about me. But I do know the surest way to lose my sister is to try to find out. The last time I saw her, she called me a freak. I’m not sure if time or alteration has softened her toward me, but I can’t risk my second chance with her now.

  “Curry,” she says, her lips turning up at the edge again.

  “Me too.”

  “And I like the onion soup.”

  Cormac smirks at this revelation. I don’t tell her what I think of it. We manage a few more minutes of awkward conversation, but it only serves to remind me of the rift Cormac has created between us.

  Once she had been my sister. Then she was Riya, a little girl rewoven into another family, and now she is here—Amie again. But not my Amie. She would never be my Amie after what they had done to her. She was too quiet, her bubbliness replaced by a timid subservience. If my parents hadn’t trained me to resist the Guild, is this how I would have wound up: an obedient girl locked away in a tower?

  When the plates are cleared, the two of them stand to leave my quarters and for a moment I want to ask Amie to stay. There’s more than enough room and more can always be made. But I know Cormac will never allow it. He’ll oversee our interactions, listen to our conversations, and chaperone our time together. He can’t trust me not to undo all the work he’s put into Amie.

  “Will I get to see Pryana soon?” Amie asks Cormac.

  “Of course. She was asking about you,” he tells her. Amie bounces a little, clapping her hands, and I’m taken aback. Maybe the Amie I remembered wasn’t gone. Behind her Cormac smiles at me, revealing rows of perfect teeth.

  I can’t bring myself to ask her about Pryana, the one person in the Coventry who has a real reason to hate me. I’d been responsible for her sister’s death, at least in Pryana’s mind. She couldn’t see the lesson Maela wanted to teach us when she ripped most of an academy from Cypress: no one is safe from the Guild, and those at the loom least of all. Pryana had never forgiven me for my inaction. In truth, I’ve never forgiven myself, either.

  Amie is led away from my apartment, to her own quarters, and I watch her go, wishing I could think of something better to ask her than what foods she likes now. But the questions I have for her can never be asked in front of Cormac.

  Cormac pauses at my door, sliding his bow tie off his collar. For one horrible mo
ment I think he’s going to kiss me as he leans in, but instead he whispers, “Consider my present a reminder of what you have to lose.”

  I let him leave without bothering to point out that I’ve already lost her, but when the door closes behind him I rush to the bathroom. It’s still the only place they don’t watch me. I reach under the sink and feel around the pipes until my fingers close over the blade. I hid it in my sleeve at my first dinner when I returned to the Coventry, scared and uncertain of what to expect. But now I’m not thinking about defending myself, I’m considering how and when to strike.

  I can’t unwind Cormac, especially now that Amie is finally close. Attacking him like that would only undermine Arras’s situation, and I don’t have everything I need yet. I have to wait for the right opportunity—keep playing along until I can access the alteration information I need to fix my mother and recover the soul strand I hope is kept somewhere in the Coventry’s repository. Once I do that, I’ll need to incapacitate him to put my final plan into place. Arras needs a rebirth and it must begin with Cormac. He must change. If he refuses, I can change his mind for him. I settle onto the floor, the knife cradled carefully in my hand. It reflects the image of my engagement ring, and I choke back a scream.

  With Amie here I’ll have another source of information. She will hear things spill from his lips, and if I can earn her trust I will learn those secrets from her. But to do that I must trust her as well. Cormac may have twisted her to his purposes, but the old Amie is in there and I know how she works. I know her heart as well as my own. Cormac thinks he has the upper hand, but two can play this evil game.

  Albert’s words echo in my memory:

  Destroy the looms. If you choose this path, others will follow you as Whorl. Embrace and trust them, but know their hearts. As you must know your own.

  EIGHT

  I’M UNCERTAIN WHEN I’LL HEAR FROM MY sister. I’m sure she’s still scared of me after the night on Alcatraz when I unwound Kincaid, but the very next morning a note arrives. She’s arranged for us to have a fitting for new gowns the next day, something I’m not looking forward to. But it’s the first time I’ll be alone with her since my retrieval, so I go with the flow and agree to host it in my overlarge quarters.