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“No,” I say slowly as the pieces start to fit together. “They’d already mapped me. Cormac was positive they could splice my skill set into another Spinster, someone ready and willing to do what they asked. Someone who wouldn’t reject the manipulation.”
“Who?” Jost asks.
“My guess?” Erik says. He pours another drink and doesn’t meet our eyes. “Pryana. She’s as power hungry as Maela, but easier to control. That must have been why she was there that night.”
I’d forgotten Pryana was there on the night of our escape. Her presence had seemed so trivial. Pryana blamed me for her sister’s death after Maela, the manipulative Spinster in charge of our training, made an example of my refusal to rip a thread from Arras. Maela took out an entire academy instead, Pryana’s sister included, and ever since, Pryana had been eager to rise to a position of power over me. Of course she’s the Spinster Cormac would choose for the experiment. He enjoys making me squirm.
“But if the technology hadn’t worked, they’d have jeopardized you and her,” Jost says.
“They weren’t going to use me,” I remind him. “They were going to take Loricel’s skills. If they did that, they wouldn’t have to manipulate me much, only enough to make me Cormac’s perfect bride.”
“You know, I have to feel a little sorry for Cormac,” Jost says. “You are quite the catch.”
Erik raises his glass and says, “I’ll drink to that.”
For a second they grin at each other, but Jost’s smile slips first.
“How would they have done this? Who has the ability to alter a person’s personality and memories? Their skills?”
“Someone at one of the other Coventries,” I guess. “Loricel told me she once assisted with the memory wipe of the entire population of Arras for the Guild, which means others helped.”
“It’s hard enough to keep the entire Western Coventry in line. I can’t imagine how they managed it elsewhere,” Erik says.
“Maybe it’s not Spinsters,” I say. The memory of the mapping session niggles at my mind. It was overseen by a doctor. Loricel wasn’t present at all.
“Kincaid better have answers,” Erik mutters.
“And I promise you I do,” an airy voice proclaims. The man appears out of nowhere, but behind him I spy an elevator door sliding closed. As soon as it shuts, the panel blends in with the carved wooden wall. “But your guesses aren’t bad. You’re close, children.”
I ignore the “children” comment. As one of the Coventry’s newest recruits, I’ve dealt with my fair share of simpering adults. Instead I stand in greeting. “Kincaid, I presume.”
“Dear girl, you presume correctly!” His voice peaks, and Kincaid claps his hands in delight. He’s wearing a smoking jacket, tied at the waist, and what appear to be velvet house slippers. We’re not the only ones dressed down for the occasion.
“Care to tell us which part we were close on?” Erik asks, not bothering to straighten up.
Kincaid’s taut features slacken when he takes in Erik’s overly comfortable appearance, and I frown in disapproval. Erik gets the message and sits up.
“All in good time,” Kincaid assures us. He extends his arm to me. “But first, strangers must become friends.”
EIGHT
MY STOMACH FLIPS WITH ANXIETY AS WE take our places at the long dining room table. The table could seat a good portion of the Western Coventry’s Spinsters. It’s set formally with an array of cutlery and folded linen napkins. Crystal goblets are already filled with cold fresh water and thin red wine. A feast is placed before us by a valet. Some of the dishes are familiar staples, like a basket of bread, but others are new to me. I’m particularly drawn to a dish of fresh broccoli and roast fowl—chicken, perhaps—spread over a delicate brown sauce that wafts the aroma of garlic. I’m pleased to see that the greenhouse I spotted on the edge of the estate is being put to use. It doesn’t feel like the kind of meal one serves to prisoners, so I presume Kincaid views us as guests—as Dante hoped he would.
Kincaid presides at the head of the table. Dante sits at the other end.
“Your house is lovely,” I force out as naturally as possible.
“The estate is to my taste. Before the war it was called the Enchanted Hill. It belonged to a fellow named Hearst, but he’s dead now,” Kincaid says.
What an odd thing to say. Of course he’s dead.
“So you’re refugees,” Kincaid says, ignoring the plate of food in front of him.
I nod, scooping broccoli into my mouth.
“I’ve seen the footage from the incident at the safe house—unpleasant business,” Kincaid continues, flicking the air like the attack was a mere annoyance. “A renegade Spinster is quite the treasure. I’m sure the Guild would love to have you back.”
I set my fork down and meet his gaze. “I’m not going back.”
