‘You ran,’ he reminds me.
‘My parents forced me to run, and I was scared enough to listen to them.’
‘So otherwise you would have come here and been a good girl?’ he asks with a smirk.
‘I guess we’ll never know.’ It’s true I didn’t immediately go to the door when they came, because I expected my father to. I thought they’d cry, and I’d look scared, but I was planning to leave with the retrieval squad. There was no other option in my head until I was pushed into that tunnel.
‘You were never meant to fall in line,’ Cormac says, standing and walking to the fireplace, which is steps from my seat. Leaning on the mantel, he hovers over me, and I shrink further into my chair.
‘So how do I prove myself?’ I ask. Or at least buy myself some time?
‘Do you know yet why a Creweler is so integral to the continuation of Arras?’ he asks.
I’m confused by the sudden shift in conversation, but I regurgitate what I’ve learned from Enora and Loricel.
He puts up a hand to halt my description. ‘Yes, that’s what a Creweler does, but why we need her is something else entirely.’
‘To protect the innocent,’ I murmur.
‘Yes, but such a concept is vague to someone too young to know true tragedy,’ he says.
My parents. Enora. My sister rewoven into a stranger. How can he suggest I don’t know about tragedy?
He watches my reaction to this proclamation, but when I don’t respond, he wets his lips with his tongue before he continues. ‘You think you know loss, but before Arras and the Guild of Twelve, wars spilled blood all over the Earth. Entire generations of young men died so that other men could gain more power.’
I bite my tongue and stare back at him. Loricel has already told me all of this, but to my astonishment, I realise that he believes what he’s saying. As though he’s different from those evil men.
‘Dictators murdered women and children for having different skin colours or holding different beliefs.’ He pauses and moves a step closer to my chair. ‘Because we didn’t have the capacity to control peace.’
Control – the word that haunts me. That’s the true difference between Earth and Arras. Men like Cormac can remove taints and troublemakers and differences much more efficiently than our ancestors on Earth.
‘And are your choices better than theirs?’ I ask, gripping the arms of my chair firmly.
‘I make choices for the good of the many,’ Cormac says, but his eyes flash and he switches tactics. ‘In Arras, we ensure food is administered and available to everyone. There’s no risk of famine. We control the weather and avoid the dangers of too little water as well as the hazards of unregulated weather conditions. In the past, humanity was at the whim of nature, but now nature serves us.’
‘Perhaps there was a purpose to the natural order of things,’ I say in a soft voice, but he ignores me.
‘Families don’t watch their loved ones decline and individuals are free from the fear of unexpected death,’ he continues. ‘We’ve cured most serious illnesses with renewal technology—’
‘And the ones you haven’t?’
‘Our citizens are relieved from their pain,’ he says without missing a beat.
‘You mean you kill them,’ I accuse.
‘We remove them from a conscious state where they would exist in pain. We’ve streamlined the burdens of old age.’
My hand aches where my grandmother’s fierce grip clasped it, and I shake my head at his lies. There’s no way he’s younger than she was. The Guild’s interest lies in removing the unnecessary matter in the weave. ‘Have you ever lost anyone?’ I ask.
‘Not the same way you have,’ he admits, ‘but you should know better than anyone the pain of unexpected death.’
‘Unexpected death’ is such a political way to put it. ‘No, have you ever lost anyone to removal?’ I clarify.
‘We don’t lose in removal. We control,’ he says, his jaw muscles twitching. He’s a bit too fond of that word. ‘And yes, I had both my parents and my wife removed.’
‘Wife?’ I gasp. Cormac Patton: the ultimate bachelor. The idea of him settled down with one woman is incomprehensible.
‘I was married when I was very young,’ he says in a casual tone. ‘As you know, it’s expected that citizens form domestic units by age eighteen. I was no exception.’
Except that he’s always been the exception. The man flashes across the Stream with a fresh new girl at every Guild event. He’s the guy my father half-jokingly referred to as a lucky bastard every time we tuned in.
I try to picture the type of woman he’d marry. In my head, she’s a cross between Maela and one of the vapid rebound stewardesses. Insipid and evil – Cormac’s perfect cocktail. ‘What happened to her?’ I ask him.
‘She fell ill before renewal technology caught up with certain psychological ailments. I chose not to prolong her suffering.’ His tone is detached; he’s stating facts, but the muscles in his jaw tense and the veins from there to his shoulders go taut. This isn’t something he wants to talk about, which makes it the number one thing I want to discuss.
‘But she wasn’t dying,’ I say, my lip trembling.
‘No,’ he says, ‘but she was not a functioning member of Arras, and her condition prevented me from serving the Guild to my full capacity.’
I turn my head, afraid my eyes will give away my burning disgust. He got rid of her so he could advance politically and enjoy the benefits of being a widowed bachelor. ‘I guess that’s why you enjoy casual relationships with so many women,’ I say in a cold voice.
‘That’s the thing, Adelice. The time has come for the family unit to be promoted again in Arras,’ he says, switching on his politician’s smile.
‘I wasn’t aware it had stopped being promoted,’ I say, thinking of the marriage profiles advertised in the daily Bulletin. By now I would be attending courting appointments and searching for a compatible match. The thought sends a tremor through my chest as I imagine the life I never had.
My jibe only launches him into more rhetoric. ‘Our laws help us maintain the family, but there are an increasing number of unnatural threats to the traditional family dynamic.’
Like Enora.
‘We contain these dangerous proclivities as best we can, but the fact is that a number of dismissed women have refused to marry according to age regulations. In the Eastern Sector, this trend is spreading, and now young men aren’t even advertising marriage profiles,’ he tells me.
‘And you let them?’ I say, not hiding my surprise. ‘When the Guild has such persuasive methods at its disposal?’ Is this the taint I heard him discussing, or just a symptom of a larger sense of discontent?
‘Frankly, after Enora’s stunt, I’m concerned about the safety of our current methods. The process may have damaged her. The remains of her thread barely held together when we removed them from the weave. It might surprise you to learn we don’t want to remap the entire female population.’
‘But you would, though,’ I accuse, my blood boiling.
‘Of course, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the good of Arras,’ he says, dropping his gaze to meet mine. ‘Someday you’ll understand this. Right now you can’t see past yourself. If girls stop marrying – if, Arras forbid, they live on their own – we can’t protect them.’
‘So you’re doing it to keep women safe?’ I ask.
‘Yes. When expectations are clear, they are easily met, but when we begin to bend the rules, we invite discord.’
I actually think Cormac believes what he’s saying, but I’ve seen the effects of these stringent rules. My mother being refused more children, our carefully segregated neighbourhoods, Enora trying to live a lie. Was quiet desperation the price of surface happiness? ‘Maybe they aren’t ready to get married,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have been.’
Cormac presses his lips together and watches me for a moment before responding. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Adelice, because the Guild h
as decided the best way to address this concern is to provide an example to these young women.’
‘What kind of example?’ I ask. I keep my voice steady.
‘The Guild has enjoyed success with most Eligibles through the elite treatment and privilege afforded Spinsters,’ he continues. ‘They’re excited to be taken to the Coventry.’
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out all the ambient noise. Only Cormac’s practised, smooth voice funnels through, like a mandatory Stream broadcast. ‘So it makes sense to give young women an example of perfect domestic tranquillity. We’ll market it the same way we do coming to the Coventry – that being married is a life of privilege. And we’ll use someone from the Coventry as an example.’
‘But Spinsters can’t . . .’ I’m too embarrassed to say it out loud.
‘Consummate the relationship?’ he asks, a smirk playing at his lips.
I give a small nod, but keep my eyes on my feet.
‘You’re not stupid,’ he says with a trace of annoyance. ‘You can’t possibly believe the whole purity-standards bit.’
‘Then why tell us that?’ More blood rushes to my face and settles on my cheeks. Generally, I don’t consider myself dumb, but I had, in fact, always believed the ‘whole purity-standards bit’.
‘Family, Adelice. We can’t have young women running around town. We need them at home, having babies, and serving Arras. And I’m sure you know women here—’
‘But it takes away our skills.’
‘You’ve seen some action since you’ve been here,’ he accuses, ‘and you’re still weaving.’
The flush of my cheeks deepens. So much for being discreet. ‘I never crossed any lines.’
‘Maybe so,’ he says, but he shrugs as though he’s unconvinced.
‘So you’re going to allow Spinsters to marry?’ I ask, feeling a bit dizzy.
‘No,’ he assures me. ‘We need Spinsters to remain dedicated to their work, and our philosophy that a wife’s first duty is to her husband would be undermined by such a policy change.’
I exhale in relief. The thought of being forced into a marriage, of making Jost live through that . . . I can’t imagine a worse torture.
‘But a Creweler can be afforded special privileges,’ he says, and my heart jumps back into my throat.
‘You . . . want . . . me . . . to . . . marry?’
‘Consider it an order,’ he says with a smile.
‘Or you’ll remap me,’ I whisper. ‘Do I get to choose?’ I struggle to hang on to the faint flicker of hope this thought offers me. No one could object to Jost. He might not like the constant grooming. But as much as I try to believe it’s possible, even if it were, I’d be putting him directly under the Guild’s thumb. No matter how much it may hurt him, it would be better if I were married to someone else.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?’ he asks with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Your choices aren’t as well conceived as the Guild would like.’
‘So you’ll choose for me?’ I ask slowly. No doubt it will be a political match.
‘We already have.’ He flashes a blinding smile. ‘Me.’
The blood rushing in my head drains out, and I grip the arms of my chair to stay upright.
Marry Cormac?
‘I’m only sixteen,’ I whisper.
‘We’ll wait for you to turn seventeen as custom dictates in the larger metros,’ he says in a casual voice.
I struggle to make sense of what he’s telling me. I stand to look out of the window. ‘But how old are you?’
Cormac scowls. ‘Renewal tech makes that a non-issue,’ he says through clenched teeth.
‘Not for me.’
‘What? You think you can go out and marry some young pretty boy?’ he asks, his voice rising steadily. ‘Let me make this clear: it has been decided. The Guild wants assurance that you’re being tightly monitored.’
‘And you’re just the man to do that,’ I say, narrowing my eyes.
‘You’ll enjoy the same privileges and get to have children.’
I choke back the stomach acid this statement sends shooting up my throat. ‘You can have kids?’
‘Of course,’ he says, straightening his tux jacket. ‘My genetic materials have been safely stored since I was a younger man.’
Much younger. Of all the possibilities I mourned when I was brought to the Coventry, having babies was not on that list.
‘So I’ll be’ – I search for the word, my thoughts moving too fast for me to latch onto them – ‘impregnated.’ My only solace is that if I can’t escape, traditional methods of procreation won’t be necessary. Although lying back on a medic table and letting some . . .
‘Our biogenetics team has created a patch that will ensure I can procreate much the same as any young father.’ His black eyes gleam as he speaks.
I back slowly away from him. The thought of his body bearing down on my own – his aseptic stench smothering me – steals my breath, and I gasp.
‘And if I refuse?’ I ask, barely containing the hysteria I feel building in my chest.
‘We remap you,’ he says with an edge in his voice, ‘and then you marry me.’
I cross my arms over my chest, clutching my shoulders, and shake my head. ‘I’ll do anything you want except that,’ I beg, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. ‘I’ll be Creweler. I’ll be good.’
‘I’d hoped you would see reason,’ he snarls, moving toward me. ‘I would have preferred a wife with some spirit, but I’ll remap you and marry you next week if I choose to.’
He’s shaking me now, but I can only sob. ‘Please. Please. Please.’
My pleas are breathless, lost in his gruff attack.
‘Did you think,’ he says, his voice full of disdain, ‘we would let you run wild, screwing around with the servants and playing dress-up? Arras demands your service, Adelice.’
I wrench my arms free and fly from the room. Cormac doesn’t follow me. He’ll find me eventually; he knows there’s no need to exert extra effort now. Scrambling into the stairwell, where I’m protected from the view of security monitors, I tear at time and weave myself into safety. When I’m sure the moment is secure, I collapse onto the cold, hard landing and stare at the hourglass my father burned onto my wrist. How can I remember who I am if they’re determined to take it from me?
I’m out of time. Even if I can break out of the compound, Cormac will hunt me down. I think of Loricel’s resignation to her impending death, and for the first time I truly understand the relief she must feel. I wish I were dead.
I stay there, trapped in my own web, unable to move. There’s only one person powerful enough to help me now, but even she has nowhere to run.
I go to her anyway.
21
The Creweler’s studio walls are blank, and the loom sits empty. Loricel must be at dinner with the others. Maybe they’ll assume I’m with Cormac and not come looking for me. The screens in the room reflect the default program, and I take a deep breath and consider where I should look first. I only have to tell the walls where I want to be and the tracking program will display that place. These walls can show me anywhere in Arras, but I’m not sure how long I have with them, so I better make my time count.
‘I am in the great hall at dinner,’ I command, feeling a little silly.
The walls shimmer and the great hall weaves itself across the space. I stand in the dead centre, the table stretching out around me. At the far end Loricel sits, speaking to no one. Meanwhile the other Spinsters make lively conversation that I can’t hear. Each woman’s skin is a pale version of its natural colour – chalk white or dusted chocolate or muted honey. I watch as one girl throws her head back, and in my own I hear a maniacal cackle as others clap and wave their hands in exaggerated gesticulations. This is how they close their day: at a long table filled with puddings and roast meat and delicate breads filled with sweet cream. A few gulp down thin red wine. One snaps her fingers and a young man appears to refill it. His face
is blank, except for the dullest hint of disgust in his electric-blue eyes.
I stare at him. Dressed in his evening suit, he bears little resemblance to the scruffy boy who carried me across that stone cell, but his eyes are the same as the day we met, the day he bandaged my hands, the day we kissed. I have to turn away or I’ll rip right through the wall to get into his arms.
All around, eyes fix on me. I feel exposed, but then I realise I’m standing in the spot where the main dish will be placed, a large ham or turkey or duck. One by one, the Spinsters seated near this spot begin reaching out towards me, their hands returning with knives and forks full of steaming, white meat. I’m being eaten alive.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing and focus on what I now know. I have located both Jost and Loricel. I want to follow Jost, but this is my only chance to find the information I need to get to Amie if I want to pull her location up on the loom.
‘Show me the offices,’ I command, and the scene shifts to a busy building where smartly dressed men and women bustle about with stacks of papers. It’s a scene outside the Coventry. My command must have been too vague.
‘Show me the offices inside the Coventry,’ I try, and the image flickers to nothing.
Pulling the digifile from my pocket, I slide open the secret file and am delighted to discover that Enora included a map of the compound. I shift the image, searching until I find what I’m looking for: the research laboratories. Next to them I spot a single room twice their size. It’s marked ‘repository’. They’re both located near the clinic where I was mapped. Calling up the labs on the wall, I see a few men clad in white jumpsuits busily working with tubes and looms. Their workday must not end at the traditional time. I close my eyes and mutter, ‘Repository.’
I can’t look. Something about the large block on the map raises the hair on my neck. Slowly I open my eyes. Large steel shelves rise up in neat, symmetrical rows, lined with thousands of tiny metal boxes. Moving closer, I examine them to find each is labelled with a sequence of fourteen numbers and letters. It takes me a moment to realise I’ve stopped breathing.
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