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“Is it good?” She used to ask me that question at night when we swapped stories as girls.
“There’s a boy,” I say.
“Not Cormac?”
“No.” I laugh at her question, but she leans forward and grabs my hands.
“Tell me!” she demands.
“His name is Erik.”
Amie releases my hand and bites her lip in excitement
. “I like that name.”
It’s exactly how I imagined it would be once I started courtship appointments. If I hadn’t come to the Coventry, Amie and I would have giggled over boys late into the night. Now this is as close as I’ll ever get.
“He has long blond hair. It’s a little bit wavy. And bright blue eyes the color of the Endless Sea.”
“He sounds cute,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“He is,” I say. “You saw him on the island.”
The words escape my mouth before I think them through. I shouldn’t bring up that night. Not now while our relationship is as fragile as glass.
“I don’t remember much about that night.” She’s lying and I know it, because despite all that’s changed about Amie, I recognize how she tugs at the one strand perpetually loose from her pinned-up hair. The same strand that wiggled free of her pigtails and ponytails and braids in our childhood. She would curl it around her delicate fingers, twisting at it, when she got nervous.
“Do you love him?” she asks me.
“I do.” The words sit like a lump in my throat. “It doesn’t matter, though.”
The excitement fades from Amie’s face. “What about Cormac? Do you love him?”
There are things I’m willing to lie to Amie about, but this isn’t one of them. “I don’t. But my arrangement with Cormac was never about love, Ames. It’s about what’s best for Arras.”
“Even if you aren’t happy?” Her eyes are wide and earnest as she asks.
I wish it were that simple. I wish I could tell Amie that love and happiness win in the end, but that would only be another lie. “Arras is more important.”
“And that scar on your wrist? What does it mean?” she asks one more time.
I recall the words my father said to me the night I was taken: Remember who you are. I try to remember who I am, but I’ve discovered too many things about myself since that night. I’m not even sure I’m the same person anymore. I’ve evolved in many ways from who I was in that cellar.
“Decide who you are,” I say to her. “That’s what it means now.”
“Who are you?” she asks in a soft voice.
“I’m still deciding,” I admit. My eyes search my sister’s face and I’m amazed—despite the lost time, all I see is young Amie, as though she’s always been this age to me. “Who are you?”
“I want to be a Spinster,” she admits. Her eyes flash briefly at me but then she looks away.
Her confession is bitter as I swallow it, but I’ll never win her back by belittling her dreams. “And why can’t you be?”
“Cormac has let me try to use the looms already,” Amie admits, making my chest constrict. She shouldn’t be on the looms yet. She isn’t even sixteen years old.
“And?” I ask.
“I keep trying to see it,” she says in a sad voice, “but I can’t. And he’s so disappointed. He’s had me examined by doctors and everything.”
