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They share a look that sends stomach acid into my throat.
‘Occasionally,’ Enora says in measured syllables, ‘we are tested spontaneously. It is a chance to see how you perform under pressure.’ Her expression reminds me of the one on my mother’s face before she fled into the tunnel. She’s lost, no matter what she does, and it drags down her eyes in sadness.
Instinctively I fling my arms around her and bury myself in her neck. Enora’s arms are warm and strong, and I want them to be my mom’s. ‘Your soul is your own,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘Don’t let them take that. No matter what they do.’
Words will betray me and allow the tears to come, so I smile bravely as I pull away from her and follow the burly guard without asking more questions. Turning one last time, I see the concerned look on Enora’s face, but she quickly replaces it with a smile when our eyes meet. We both know this testing isn’t spontaneous or an evaluation of my progress. This is a new punishment.
My fingertips are hard like rocks where Enora painted them with the clear lacquer. I can still feel them but as I press them together, the nails bend back. But the skin is numb where she brushed the gloss.
‘Word to the wise,’ the guard offers in a gruff voice. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘That,’ he says, and his eyes dart to my fingertips. ‘You’ll get her in trouble for helping you.’
A slow aching chill sprea
ds out through my chest and down into my arms and legs. What have I got myself into?
‘Is Erik okay?’ I ask, trying to sound casual. ‘He usually escorts me to these things.’
‘Yeah.’ The guard snorts. ‘Maela has switched up assignments for the time being. He’ll be sticking closer to her in the future.’
This news doesn’t surprise me, but it still hurts. Erik might have been a friend, and even if his intentions weren’t exactly noble, he made me laugh. And then there was the kiss. Something I don’t know how to deal with.
The halls are quiet. No hint of a party lingers – even the late-nighters must be in bed. What kind of punishment takes place at four in the morning? The kind no one can know about. Enora warned me this would happen if I hung around Erik, but I didn’t listen.
My new guard leads me up to two swinging doors and holds one open. ‘I’m Darius, by the way,’ he informs me, and as soon as I’m through the door, he’s gone.
Swollen white plastic covers the walls of the stark studio. One window. One loom. One person. Maela’s already there, fully dressed. And I have no underwear on. She must keep her aesthetician locked in her bathroom. But when she turns, I see she has no cosmetics applied. Her face is softer, lacking the harsh angles rouge and liner give it. She looks average, maybe even pretty, but her eyes are the same: cold and hateful.
‘On occasion,’ she says, ‘we are required to perform an unexpected test on a new Spinster. A few Guild officials expressed concern over your readiness to start Crewel work. As you know, this work is of the utmost importance, and it’s my duty to assure them you are ready.’
‘Which officials?’ I ask, calling her bluff.
She smiles, unfazed. ‘Don’t worry about that. The important thing is that you focus on completing the task I have for you.’
‘Have you spoken with Cormac?’
‘I don’t have to approve training activities with Cormac,’ she says, staring out the window.
‘Loricel?’ I ask, wondering if she’s approved this.
‘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?’
