Unraveled Page 8

  “Do you understand?” Maela asks in a harsh voice, and I look up to find her staring down at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”

  “Try not to think during the program,” she says. “Cormac wants you to make an impression.”

  Of course Cormac does. He’s betting on this charade to distract the citizens of Arras from the tension within the weave.

  “You only want me to add some lightning?” I clarify. I long to touch the rain, but I’ve been told exactly what I’m expected to do.

  “I want you to not screw this up,” she hisses in a low voice meant only for me.

  “It’s a good thing I’m the one doing it, then,” I say.

  A commotion interrupts our exchange, and the Stream reporters part to reveal Cormac standing in the doorway. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s obsessed with choreographing every aspect of my return to Arras—and of our sham engagement. The sheer fact that he would ask Maela to direct this shows how little he trusts me not to mess things up.

  “Prime Minister.” The respectful greeting is murmured by every man as Cormac passes through the room, heading straight to Maela and me. When he reaches us, he ignores Maela and leans down to plant a kiss on my forehead. He lingers long enough for the several cameramen who snap photos of the moment.

  “I will answer questions at the beginning of the broadcast,” he announces.

  More than a few of the men grimace. Undoubtedly this will affect their Stream schedules and carefully planned programming. But no one challenges him. No one would dare deny the prime minister a chance to speak to his people. No one who wanted to keep his job, or for that matter, his life. I think of the man who dared to ask about my parents once at a rebound station, how he was carried away to an unknown fate. Now I know he probably wound up on Earth, half the man he once was, forced to become a Remnant to fulfill the whims of the Guild.

  “We go live in thirty seconds,” a man announces from behind the camera.

  Cormac looks to his side, spotting Maela still hovering in range of the camera lens. He groans and shoves her out of the way. It’s inelegant and rude, and Maela’s cheeks blaze with fury, but her gaze is leveled directly at me. I make a mental note to remind Cormac not to put me under her direction for future events and programs.

  “And we’re live,” the man says, pointing a finger at the young reporter selected to interview Cormac and me.

  “We’re extraordinarily honored tonight to bring you an interview with Prime Minister Patton from the studios of the Western Coventry,” he says, introducing the topic of the program.

  “I’m pleased I could make it here to officially introduce my citizens to the young woman who has captured my heart,” Cormac says. His stance is steady and everything from his gesticulations to his perfect smile prove how he weaseled his way to the top of the Guild.

  “We’ve had the opportunity to meet Miss Lewys today,” the reporter continues in a smooth voice, “and I think it’s safe to assume she will capture the hearts of Arras, too.”

  Not a single one of these men has talked to me. Not even the one who adjusts the microphone system for the audio recording. I might become Cormac’s wife, but that means nothing to them. I could be a prop for all they care.

  “Prime Minister, I know everyone in Arras is dying to know the same thing. How did Miss Lewys capture your attention?”

  If one of them uses the word capture again, I’m going to scream.

  I was the one who was captured, and it definitely wasn’t romantic. But like everything in politics, a shiny veneer applied to the surface of the story is meant to divert the listeners with its sparkle so they can’t see the ugliness beneath.

  “Miss Lewys came into service with the Western Coventry in a truly remarkable way.”

  That’s an understatement.

  “Her talent caught my eye almost immediately. She’s an exceptional Spinster, but I soon discovered she had other talents and characteristics as well.”

  Imagine a woman having other talents.

  “Can you elaborate?” the reporter asked.

  I keep a smile on my face, even as I choke back the mirthless laugh bubbling to my lips. I’d love to hear what traits caught Cormac’s attention. Was it my penchant for talking back or my obvious distaste for the Guild and everything it stood for, including him?

  “Well, she is quite beautiful,” Cormac says, exchanging a nod with the reporter.

  Yes, that is definitely my most winning characteristic—to Cormac. I’m pretty sure he hates everything else about me. At least our marriage will be based on a foundation of mutual disgust.

  “She is beautiful,” the reporter confirms out loud as though they are discussing a statue behind them.

  “And she has a rare treat for you tonight,” Cormac says. “We usually don’t show real-time weaving on Stream programming, but this evening Adelice will be weaving a rainstorm throughout the Southern Sector. If you’re in the area, you’ve probably been anticipating these showers all day. If not, you haven’t checked your weather programming.”

  Cormac gives a stern look to the cameras and then relaxes into a grin. “I’m only kidding, of course.”

  I know better than this. Cormac is incapable of jokes. Everything is a thinly veiled threat with him and this one is very clear. He wants to make sure the citizens of Arras have their priorities straight. He needs everyone to have their eyes on me.

  “Adelice.” Cormac’s arm opens wide as though he’s presenting me. Somehow I feel more like a sacrifice than entertainment.

  I smile widely and murmur a soft hello. I’ve been warned not to speak. This program isn’t about hearing me speak. It’s about giving Arras a face, one they’ve seen before if they’ve been allowed to remember it, while further glamorizing Spinsters. Now young girls can dream of beautiful clothing, luxurious lifestyles, and the possibility that they, too, could marry the most powerful man in the world one day.

  On cue, the loom whirs to life and the Southern Sector’s weave glides silkily onto it. Most of Arras won’t be able to see the strands of life on the loom, but I’m told the producers of the program have illustrations that will be overlaid to show what I’m doing. But none of that matters now that there is a woven piece on my loom. The storm is set to occur over the entire sector. Most likely as a demonstration of how much power the Spinsters can exert over an entire population at one time. My zoom function isn’t enabled since my work is merely cosmetic. I can add some lightning and not much else. But when I touch the weave with my bare fingertips the rain shivers into them, cool and wet. I let my fingers linger in the lush tapestry, savoring the smooth, damp texture of the strands.

  Reaching down to the tray at the edge of the loom, I pluck a single strand of lightning from the few dozen threads I’ve been given for this program. It tingles through my hands, sparking with electricity as I delicately wiggle it into a cloud hovering somewhere near the center of the sector. I imagine a bolt of light splintering the sky, followed by a crack booming over the homes of those watching the Stream from their living rooms. Before I can think, I add another, farther away, my fingers moving deftly.

  I don’t want to leave the loom. I want to go down to the studios and weave food rations. I want to lose myself in the precisely timed rain showers and snowstorms. I want to escape to a life of anonymity.

  I could fold into this reality and forget everything. That’s how addicting, how singular this experience feels. It consumes me. It motivates. For a moment I would do anything to knit my fingers into the slate-gray rain strands every day.

  And as that desire pours through my blood, spreading like poison, my fingers ache for something new: destruction. My hands twitch toward the strands on the loom. Cormac wants a demonstration of my abilities, but shouldn’t Arras see what I can also do? What all the girls trapped here can do? I suck in a breath and force myself to see the delicate weave in front of me. It teems with life, sparkling as it intersects with every piece around it. />
  I am not death. I am life.

  “What an amazing demonstration,” the reporter says, intruding on the euphoria of my work. The loom clicks off and the piece of tapestry fades away.

  I miss it immediately. My center aches, hollow but for the longing to become part of something greater.

  This is why the Spinsters do their work. This is why they don’t abandon their duties. Because in the glorious moment when you can touch the fabric of the universe, you are one with it. You become it as you create it.

  And this is why what the girls in the Eastern Sector did is spectacular to me. They walked away. And even now, with what I know, part of me wants to beg Cormac to bring the loom back for a few more moments.

  I turn on my stool, crossing my legs in a prim posture for the camera, and smile again. But I wonder if the women watching at home spy the ghost of emptiness in my eyes.

  “As you can see, Miss Lewys is a great asset to our looms and our world, and her role will continue to grow after she becomes my wife,” Cormac says.

  “Will she be working outside the looms?” the reporter asks. There’s some hesitation to the question, but I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to ask or if it’s because Cormac’s insinuation is stunning, even to me.

  “Not only will she be working outside the looms, she’ll be working outside the home. It is our dream to move this world forward to more power and prestige. Each year Arras has advanced technologically, but it’s time our greatest powers joined together in a new path. As you know, Spinsters are not allowed to marry. In many ways, Miss Lewys and I are embarking on a new world together, not merely a new marriage.”

  “And what is your hope for this new … world?” The reporter stumbles over the question.

  I don’t listen to Cormac’s answer because I know it’s lies. He’s feeding the progressive dissenters what they want to hear: Look, I’ll give a woman some power on the Stream. We’re moving forward, so stop worrying your pretty heads about the fate of the future generations.

  But anyone with half a brain would notice I’m not allowed to speak. They would see my pristine costume, specifically chosen to look demure and womanly on the camera, and know I have no more power than they do. Cormac’s plan is to show them that even a woman of great power is willing to lay it aside and become a wife. But I can hardly expect them to know that when even Cormac doesn’t take my power seriously.

  And yet, he placed me on this loom tonight. If I were a true rebel, I would never have done what he asked. I would have wreaked havoc over the entire Southern Sector, throwing it into an uprising. But even as I think this I spot the techprint on my wrist.

  That’s not who I am. Unlike Cormac, I have no desire to abuse my skills to hurt the innocent. He knew that when he placed me here tonight. He’s calling my bluff, but he doesn’t know the cards I’ve hidden up my sleeve, especially not the access card I swiped from one of the guards. Cormac knows I’m a Tailor, though I don’t think he’s considered exactly how I could use that to my advantage.

  But I have.

  TEN

  THE DREAM IS THE SAME. I am in a white room. When I look closely I see them. Frozen. Trapped. The faces of those I have loved and lost. My father. Enora. Loricel. They stare at me with dead eyes from translucent faces. Their mouths are twisted open, but struck dumb.

  And still I go to each of them and ask them how to help. Nothing changes, so I return to the loom. On it are strands, but they are bloody. A bow is tied across the polished top of the loom, a single card dangling from it, reading: Choose.

  The threads are dying, oozing away on the cold steel, but when I reach out to fix them the bands of the loom slice open my hands and fingers.

  To save them I must bleed.

  I reach forward and catch the sticky strands between my thumb and index finger and I see them.

  Jost and Amie and Dante. They’re dying.

  Erik. His beautiful face contorts into a mask of anguish, and I begin to work without hesitation. Spurred by the ache in my chest that pulses with each cut of my fingers as I try to help him.

  I twist and I tangle and I try to stop the blood ebbing from the strands, but as I do, I bleed more and more and more. A puddle forms at my feet and I know there’s no way to save them all.

  I begin to shake but then I hear a voice. “Adelice, wake up!”

  The world blurs into focus and I open my eyes to find my sister standing over me with a frown on her face. I must have fallen asleep in a chair.

  “You were dreaming,” she says. “It sounded like a nightmare.”

  It was, but I don’t tell her that. Instead I reach out and hug her close to me. For a second it’s awkward, but she settles into my embrace. Her soft blond hair tickles my skin. We are right again.

  “Are you okay?” She pulls away and looks at me with concern.

  “I’m fine. I don’t even remember the dream,” I lie.

  “I came to tell you that you were amazing on the Stream. I wish I could’ve been there, but Cormac forbade me.”

  I frown at this. Since when does Cormac care what Amie does? He’s given her the run of the place since she arrived.

  “I can leave if you’re tired,” she says, misinterpreting my frown. I shake my head. The dream sticks to me like the blood on the loom. I want Amie to stay because I need her. She strokes my hand, reminding me of our mother.

  “What’s this?” Amie reaches out and runs a soft finger over my techprint.

  “Credentials,” I say without thinking. I immediately wish I could take it back.

  “From when you were with the revolutionaries?”

  “Yes,” I say hesitantly. Amie wasn’t there to see Benn—the man we both knew as our father—print me on the night of my retrieval. She doesn’t remember that our parents were the ones who pushed us into those tunnels.

  “Adelice, you’re lying to me,” she says in a low voice. “I know it. You keep lying to me. It’s like you forget that I’m your sister sometimes. I know you well enough to know when you’re telling me the truth.”

  I sigh. This Amie isn’t the one I whispered to at night or opened Winter Solstice presents with. She’s different now. Hesitant where she was once vivacious. She doesn’t run to me like she did when we were girls at academy. We don’t share the same memories or experiences. Even though I want to trust her, I can’t keep the Guild from using her against me.

  “Amie, they monitor everything we say to each other,” I tell her, choosing a logical reason to keep things from her.

  “They’re listening to us?” she asks. She’s still very girlish sometimes in her trust of the Guild, so she doesn’t see the twisted mechanisms at work here.

  “Yes. And I don’t think Cormac wants me to talk about my time on Earth,” I say, knowing I don’t want to tell her, either. “It’s not safe for you to know, and I don’t want to relive it.”

  “Was it terrible?” she asks.

  It’s a testament to how dependent she is that she doesn’t see I’m unhappy here.

  “No it wasn’t, but it’s in the past.”

  “And that’s it? I was out of your life for years, and you won’t share what happened to you? Or why you don’t look any older than you did the night they came for you?” Her lower lip trembles like when she was a girl and our mom told her no.

  “I can’t,” I say. Her face sinks and she stands to leave. “I can’t tell you about all of it.”

  Amie sits back down and waits with an eager expression.

  “This isn’t a secret,” I say. “At least, not one that Cormac cares about.”

  “Is it good?” She used to ask me that question at night when we swapped stories as girls.

  “There’s a boy,” I say.

  “Not Cormac?”

  “No.” I laugh at her question, but she leans forward and grabs my hands.

  “Tell me!” she demands.

  “His name is Erik.”

  Amie releases my hand and bites her lip in excitement
. “I like that name.”

  It’s exactly how I imagined it would be once I started courtship appointments. If I hadn’t come to the Coventry, Amie and I would have giggled over boys late into the night. Now this is as close as I’ll ever get.

  “He has long blond hair. It’s a little bit wavy. And bright blue eyes the color of the Endless Sea.”

  “He sounds cute,” she says, squeezing my hand.

  “He is,” I say. “You saw him on the island.”

  The words escape my mouth before I think them through. I shouldn’t bring up that night. Not now while our relationship is as fragile as glass.

  “I don’t remember much about that night.” She’s lying and I know it, because despite all that’s changed about Amie, I recognize how she tugs at the one strand perpetually loose from her pinned-up hair. The same strand that wiggled free of her pigtails and ponytails and braids in our childhood. She would curl it around her delicate fingers, twisting at it, when she got nervous.

  “Do you love him?” she asks me.

  “I do.” The words sit like a lump in my throat. “It doesn’t matter, though.”

  The excitement fades from Amie’s face. “What about Cormac? Do you love him?”

  There are things I’m willing to lie to Amie about, but this isn’t one of them. “I don’t. But my arrangement with Cormac was never about love, Ames. It’s about what’s best for Arras.”

  “Even if you aren’t happy?” Her eyes are wide and earnest as she asks.

  I wish it were that simple. I wish I could tell Amie that love and happiness win in the end, but that would only be another lie. “Arras is more important.”

  “And that scar on your wrist? What does it mean?” she asks one more time.

  I recall the words my father said to me the night I was taken: Remember who you are. I try to remember who I am, but I’ve discovered too many things about myself since that night. I’m not even sure I’m the same person anymore. I’ve evolved in many ways from who I was in that cellar.