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“You’re a knitter.” She nodded. “Now and forever more.”
I held firm as Lilly put her hand into a bowl of liquid and then put her wet hand flat on my face. I knew what was going on. I was getting my own red handprint for succeeding the trials and becoming a knitter. I felt exhilarated. This must have been how Olympians felt when they took home gold.
“One of us! One of us!”
“To the cause!” a voice shouted. “And to the patterns!”
Cheers erupted into the room, and though I was fighting for my life against the fire that burned in my chest, I laughed because it felt good. I had completed Lilly’s trials and survived while doing it. I took a pledge, got a tattoo, cut my finger, gave up my DNA willingly, probably signed my life away on that membership form, and drank the most heartburn-inducing beverage known to man. But I did it. Me.
I liked this new version of myself. No, I loved her. Ina from three months ago would have never believed I could be this happy, so I did this for her.
“Knitters,” Lilly said. “Greet our newest member, Ina.”
The lights in the room suddenly flicked on, and when my vision adjusted to the bright lights, I felt my jaw drop. I was standing in the middle of a war room. A chopped-up version of the pledge I had taken was on the wall in gold writing: For the patterns, by the patterns, and to the patterns alone. Detailed maps of different Irish counties hung on the walls with pins and red string crisscrossed all over them. There were giant pictures of the Slater brothers and the Collins brothers too. All of them were in various stages of undress, and it was obvious they were all taken at the garage.
I quickly realised they were pictures from a photo shoot for a calendar. I tore my eyes away from them and continued my inspection. There were some black and white pictures of old ladies with red X’s through them—I was too scared to ask what the X’s meant—and about two dozen mugshots hung on the wall too. I recognised Lilly, at various ages, in about eight of them.
WHO WAS THIS FUCKING WOMAN?
I was pulled out of my stupor and turned when the cloaks moved. One by one, the hoods were pulled back. When my gaze fell on one member, I nearly died!
“Alec?”
Alec Slater stood right next to me, all six foot four inches of sexy, tattooed prime man meat … and he held a pair of crocheting hooks in his huge hands. He had a red handprint on his face too. So did the other women I had just seen for the first time.
“Welcome.”
“Alec.” I shook my head in disbelief. “You are a knitter?”
“Yep. I joined a couple of years ago. My membership status is private to everyone apart from my wife.”
“But … why?”
“I am a sleeper cell.”
I had no fucking idea what was going on. It felt like I was part of the plot of a James Bond film.
“What does that mean?”
“I infiltrate other knitting clubs in the country, gather information, steal their patterns, and savage their pieces and put a wrench in their plans for the yearly ‘Knitter Takes All’ competition.”
I had so many questions.
“Are we at war?” I asked, swallowing. “Did I just become a soldier?”
“We’re always at war with other clubs when it comes to Knitter Takes All,” Lilly answered without looking my way. “Ye can’t back out now, either. Ye took the oath, gave your pledge … we have your DNA and thumbprint.”
I widened my eyes when I realised that she could plant either of those things at the scene of a crime, and I’d be implicated as a criminal. My eyes widened farther when I realised that was exactly what would happen if I failed at being a knitter. Fear made my back go ramrod straight. Dante was right. I shouldn’t have signed anything—or given DNA—when Lilly asked me to.
“I don’t want to be a sleeper cell,” I said, my chin raised. “I want to just be a knitter. I want to learn from you ladies, and Alec, and make some cosy clothes and accessories. I’ll participate in legal competitions, of course, but I won’t do anythin’ illegal.”
Lilly glanced at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeated. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I nodded, trying not to appear too relieved.
“Brilliant.”
“You couldn’t cut it as a sleeper anyway,” Alec said offhand. “The stress would make ye cry. It nearly cracked me a few times. I’ve gotten tougher, though.”
I knew he was one-hundred-percent correct.
“Of course ye’ve gotten tougher.” One of the ladies beamed his way. “You’re our big, bad, hunky, handsome devil.”
Alec’s chest puffed up with the compliment.
I noticed then that behind each of the members was a chair, a cosy chair. I sat down on my chair at the same time everyone else did. It was weird. Everyone looked like an assassin belonging to a secret brotherhood with their cloaks and war paint, but they were just regular people who loved to knit and crochet probably a little bit more than the next person, but that was okay because I did too.
