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“They say he’s going mad.” Pryana’s answer sucks the air from my lungs.
I’d thought the same thing. But how widespread were the rumors? There were always plenty of rumors at the Coventry. Usually they were tangled with a string of truth.
“He’s losing his mind because the Whorl is coming,” the seamstress says in a whisper. My eyes flash to Pryana’s and she nods. I’m uncertain how to respond. How did a seamstress at the Coventry hear of the Whorl?
“Everyone is jealous,” Amie says in a burst of annoyance.
“Jealous of what?” I ask.
“You,” she says. There’s a furious blush on her fair skin as she speaks. “They’re jealous that he’s marrying you and that’s why everyone is spreading lies about him.”
Cormac had thoroughly ingratiated himself with Amie in my absence. If anyone is going to tattle on me it’ll be her, I realize sadly.
Still, Amie might as well know the truth. I have enough lies to keep straight. It isn’t a secret that I don’t want to marry Cormac. “They’re welcome to him.”
It was the wrong thing to say with Pryana in the room and I immediately wish I could take it back.
“He wants you to be happy, Ad,” Amie says in a quiet voice. The room falls silent, and the fitting ends without any more words exchanged between us.
One of the seamstresses starts to hum an old melody my mother used to sing to me as a child. When I look at Amie, tears glisten in her eyes. She remembers it, I’m sure. But I’m not certain if she can place it; those little moments of our lives before may have been wiped from her mind. The damage Cormac did to her is severe and I’m not sure it can be undone. Valery overcame his tinkering, though perhaps only briefly. For all I know she could have turned on Dante and the Agenda the moment I left with Cormac. I doubt it, though. Alteration can change many things about a person but still not affect her true essence. There’s only one way to permanently alter someone’s personality and I knew from my interactions with our mother that Cormac hadn’t gone that far with my sister. Amie still has her soul.
There’s an awkward pause we should fill with a hug, but neither of us is ready for that. Instead we say goodbye.
Pryana stops at the door, shooing Amie along, and I brace myself.
“I’m not going to hit you,” she says.
“You’ve hit me before,” I remind her, my fingers rubbing my jaw to relieve the echo of pain the memory recalls.
“Things have changed around here, Adelice.” Each of Pryana’s words is heavy, laced with a meaning I don’t quite understand. “Keep your eyes open.”
After they leave, I walk from room to room, surveying the emptiness that’s more acute than ever.
And even more dangerous.
NINE
THE CR
EWS CLUSTER INTO THE STUDIO SPACE, setting up lighting equipment and cameras. The studio is bare and simple, but large enough to fit the dozen or so crew members who will film my profile for this evening’s Stream broadcast. I tug at my short skirt, feeling too exposed already. I’m not eager to be filmed, but Cormac arranged this as a way to introduce me before we begin a publicity tour through Arras—a fact that makes me even less interested in performing for the cameras. I’ve been dressed in a pink wool suit with gold buttons on the lapels because Cormac says it’s matronly.
Exactly how a sixteen-year-old wants to be described.
He wants me to look like a wife, not a teenage girl, but I’m not sure a wool suit will hide our massive age difference.
Maela is handling my preparation. As neither of us has killed the other yet, I’d say it’s going well. But then she flies back into the studio, barking out orders and shoving past several cameramen.
“We’re behind schedule already,” she complains loudly. “Are none of you capable of working in a timely fashion?”
“We were waiting for you,” I tell her. This isn’t entirely true, but I can’t imagine starting without her. She probably would have interrupted the broadcast to throw a hissy fit.
“The program is supposed to stream in five minutes,” she says.
“Ma’am, we’re ready to go live. If Miss Lewys is prepared to begin, we’ll start right on time,” a cameraman says. He glowers at her as he speaks, and Maela balks. I wonder if she’s more upset that he dared to stand up to her or if she’s angry that he called her ma’am.
“Adelice.” She sweeps over to me and hovers. “You will simply be adjusting a rainstorm in the Southern Sector. As we discussed, another Spinster will oversee your work from the main studios.”
Because I’m too dangerous to trust with a loom. I stare at the loom procured for my use. It feels like a million years since I’ve woven on one and its gears sing out to me, my fingers itching to touch it. I have held the naked matter of the universe, but it was never as peaceful as the act of spinning the refined weave of Arras. There is a harmony to the precise patterns used to construct this world and working with them is as second nature to me as breathing.
