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‘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.
