Unraveled (10 page)

“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

T
HE CREWS 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.

“Do you understand?” Maela asks in a harsh voice, and I look up to find her staring
down at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”

“Try not to
think
during the program,” she says. “Cormac wants you to make an impression.”

Of course Cormac does. He’s betting on this charade to distract the citizens of Arras
from the tension within the weave.

“You only want me to add some lightning?” I clarify. I long to touch the rain, but
I’ve been told exactly what I’m expected to do.

“I want you to not screw this up,” she hisses in a low voice meant only for me.

“It’s a good thing I’m the one doing it, then,” I say.

A commotion interrupts our exchange, and the Stream reporters part to reveal Cormac
standing in the doorway. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s obsessed with choreographing
every aspect of my return to Arras—and of our sham engagement. The sheer fact that
he would ask Maela to direct this shows how little he trusts me not to mess things
up.

“Prime Minister.” The respectful greeting is murmured by every man as Cormac passes
through the room, heading straight to Maela and me. When he reaches us, he ignores
Maela and leans down to plant a kiss on my forehead. He lingers long enough for the
several cameramen who snap photos of the moment.

“I will answer questions at the beginning of the broadcast,” he announces.

More than a few of the men grimace. Undoubtedly this will affect their Stream schedules
and carefully planned programming. But no one challenges him. No one would dare deny
the prime minister a chance to speak to his people. No one who wanted to keep his
job, or for that matter, his life. I think of the man who dared to ask about my parents
once at a rebound station, how he was carried away to an unknown fate. Now I know
he probably wound up on Earth, half the man he once was, forced to become a Remnant
to fulfill the whims of the Guild.

“We go live in thirty seconds,” a man announces from behind the camera.

Cormac looks to his side, spotting Maela still hovering in range of the camera lens.
He groans and shoves her out of the way. It’s inelegant and rude, and Maela’s cheeks
blaze with fury, but her gaze is leveled directly at me. I make a mental note to remind
Cormac not to put me under her direction for future events and programs.

“And we’re live,” the man says, pointing a finger at the young reporter selected to
interview Cormac and me.

“We’re extraordinarily honored tonight to bring you an interview with Prime Minister
Patton from the studios of the Western Coventry,” he says, introducing the topic of
the program.

“I’m pleased I could make it here to officially introduce my citizens to the young
woman who has captured my heart,” Cormac says. His stance is steady and everything
from his gesticulations to his perfect smile prove how he weaseled his way to the
top of the Guild.

“We’ve had the opportunity to meet Miss Lewys today,” the reporter continues in a
smooth voice, “and I think it’s safe to assume she will capture the hearts of Arras,
too.”

Not a single one of these men has talked to me. Not even the one who adjusts the microphone
system for the audio recording. I might become Cormac’s wife, but that means nothing
to them. I could be a prop for all they care.

“Prime Minister, I know everyone in Arras is dying to know the same thing. How did
Miss Lewys capture your attention?”

If one of them uses the word
capture
again, I’m going to scream.

I was the one who was
captured
, and it definitely wasn’t romantic. But like everything in politics, a shiny veneer
applied to the surface of the story is meant to divert the listeners with its sparkle
so they can’t see the ugliness beneath.

“Miss Lewys came into service with the Western Coventry in a truly remarkable way.”

That’s an understatement.

“Her talent caught my eye almost immediately. She’s an exceptional Spinster, but I
soon discovered she had other talents and characteristics as well.”

Imagine a woman having other talents.

“Can you elaborate?” the reporter asked.

I keep a smile on my face, even as I choke back the mirthless laugh bubbling to my
lips. I’d love to hear what traits caught Cormac’s attention. Was it my penchant for
talking back or my obvious distaste for the Guild and everything it stood for, including
him?

“Well, she is quite beautiful,” Cormac says, exchanging a nod with the reporter.

Yes, that is definitely my most winning characteristic—to Cormac. I’m pretty sure
he hates everything else about me. At least our marriage will be based on a foundation
of mutual disgust.

“She is beautiful,” the reporter confirms out loud as though they are discussing a
statue behind them.

“And she has a rare treat for you tonight,” Cormac says. “We usually don’t show real-time
weaving on Stream programming, but this evening Adelice will be weaving a rainstorm
throughout the Southern Sector. If you’re in the area, you’ve probably been anticipating
these showers all day. If not, you haven’t checked your weather programming.”

Cormac gives a stern look to the cameras and then relaxes into a grin. “I’m only kidding,
of course.”

I know better than this. Cormac is incapable of jokes. Everything is a thinly veiled
threat with him and this one is very clear. He wants to make sure the citizens of
Arras have their priorities straight. He needs everyone to have their eyes on me.

“Adelice.” Cormac’s arm opens wide as though he’s presenting me. Somehow I feel more
like a sacrifice than entertainment.

I smile widely and murmur a soft hello. I’ve been warned not to speak. This program
isn’t about hearing me speak. It’s about giving Arras a face, one they’ve seen before
if they’ve been allowed to remember it, while further glamorizing Spinsters. Now young
girls can dream of beautiful clothing, luxurious lifestyles,
and
the possibility that they, too, could marry the most powerful man in the world one
day.

On cue, the loom whirs to life and the Southern Sector’s weave glides silkily onto
it. Most of Arras won’t be able to see the strands of life on the loom, but I’m told
the producers of the program have illustrations that will be overlaid to show what
I’m doing. But none of that matters now that there is a woven piece on my loom. The
storm is set to occur over the entire sector. Most likely as a demonstration of how
much power the Spinsters can exert over an entire population at one time. My zoom
function isn’t enabled since my work is merely cosmetic. I can add some lightning
and not much else. But when I touch the weave with my bare fingertips the rain shivers
into them, cool and wet. I let my fingers linger in the lush tapestry, savoring the
smooth, damp texture of the strands.

Reaching down to the tray at the edge of the loom, I pluck a single strand of lightning
from the few dozen threads I’ve been given for this program. It tingles through my
hands, sparking with electricity as I delicately wiggle it into a cloud hovering somewhere
near the center of the sector. I imagine a bolt of light splintering the sky, followed
by a
crack
booming over the homes of those watching the Stream from their living rooms. Before
I can think, I add another, farther away, my fingers moving deftly.

I don’t want to leave the loom. I want to go down to the studios and weave food rations.
I want to lose myself in the precisely timed rain showers and snowstorms. I want to
escape to a life of anonymity.

I could fold into this reality and forget everything. That’s how addicting, how singular
this experience feels. It consumes me. It motivates. For a moment I would do anything
to knit my fingers into the slate-gray rain strands every day.

And as that desire pours through my blood, spreading like poison, my fingers ache
for something new: destruction. My hands twitch toward the strands on the loom. Cormac
wants a demonstration of my abilities, but shouldn’t Arras see what I can also do?
What all the girls trapped here can do? I suck in a breath and force myself to see
the delicate weave in front of me. It teems with life, sparkling as it intersects
with every piece around it.

I am not death. I am life.

“What an amazing demonstration,” the reporter says, intruding on the euphoria of my
work. The loom clicks off and the piece of tapestry fades away.

I miss it immediately. My center aches, hollow but for the longing to become part
of something greater.

This
is why the Spinsters do their work. This is why they don’t abandon their duties.
Because in the glorious moment when you can touch the fabric of the universe, you
are one with it. You become it as you create it.

And this is why what the girls in the Eastern Sector did is spectacular to me. They
walked away. And even now, with what I know, part of me wants to beg Cormac to bring
the loom back for a few more moments.

I turn on my stool, crossing my legs in a prim posture for the camera, and smile again.
But I wonder if the women watching at home spy the ghost of emptiness in my eyes.

“As you can see, Miss Lewys is a great asset to our looms and our world, and her role
will continue to grow after she becomes my wife,” Cormac says.

“Will she be working outside the looms?” the reporter asks. There’s some hesitation
to the question, but I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to ask or if it’s
because Cormac’s insinuation is stunning, even to me.

“Not only will she be working outside the looms, she’ll be working outside the home.
It is our dream to move this world forward to more power and prestige. Each year Arras
has advanced technologically, but it’s time our greatest powers joined together in
a new path. As you know, Spinsters are not allowed to marry. In many ways, Miss Lewys
and I are embarking on a new world together, not merely a new marriage.”

“And what is your hope for this new … world?” The reporter stumbles over the question.