“How powerful would a man with weaving abilities be?” This time he pauses for emphasis. “More powerful than an official without?”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
“And at first glance, there’s no problem. But the war the Guild escaped from was fought by men hungry for power. What if a government was put into place to act on behalf of citizens and a young man demanded power from them because of his ability? It would have been disastrous to the peace the Guild had cultivated.”
“They were no better than those other men,” I say.
“Intentions are fickle things,” Dante says. “I believe the Guild intended all their rules to safeguard against power struggles and war. If they carefully monitored and controlled the female population with a male government, things could be regulated. Boys with weaving ability remained untrained and away from looms.”
“Now the Guild tells us only women can weave.”
“Denying an ability doesn’t make it go away. More boys were born with the gift. Some went away and came back different. Changed,” Dante tells me.
“Is that why so many Tailors fled to Earth?” I ask.
“It’s safer for them here,” Dante says.
“Too bad it’s so much more dangerous for the rest of us with them here,” I say.
“Not every Tailor is evil, Adelice.”
“You aren’t,” I say.
Dante hesitates before he responds to this, running a hand over his cropped brown hair. There’s a pattern to his nervous habits. “I’m not really a Tailor. Not in my heart. I never wanted my skills.”
“Just like I’m not really a Spinster,” I admit.
“Exactly,” he says.
“You can warp, then?” I ask.
“No, that’s a Creweler’s skill,” he says. “I’m powerful, but not as talented as you are.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Good genetics?” He shrugs, giving me an awkward smile.
“So both Spinsters and Tailors need tools like looms to manipulate the weave,” I say.
“No, Tailors can’t work looms,” he reminds me. “Their power is more insidious than that. You know that the true nature of their ability lies in alteration.”
“Tailors alter objects and people physically. Spinsters use looms to weave and embroider.”
“Correct,” Dante says.
“Is that why the Guild is so afraid of Tailors?” I can’t imagine how dangerous that talent could be unchecked. Spinsters can be kept under control by preventing loom access.
“It’s certainly why they control them so stringently. But never forget that there are Tailors who go along with the Guild. We aren’t all bad or evil, but you can’t blindly trust us either,” Dante says. “If you suspect a man—or a boy—of being a Tailor, keep him at arm’s length.”
The warning isn’t as generic as he’s trying to make it sound. He’s telling me to keep one particular boy away, but while Dante may not have a reason to trust Erik, I do. I steer the conversation away from Erik, knowing things could get volatile. “How do they find Tailors? There’s no required testing of boys like there is for girls.”
“Once they understood the true nature of male weaving ability, they started cataloging boys born to parents who had been part of the initial experiments. Many didn’t come back. Cities were segregated so the Guild could attempt to control marriage, ensuring ideal female offspring.”
“They’ve been successful enough at keeping women under their control,” I say, not bothering to hide my distaste.
“Spinsters can be powerful, but they allow themselves to be controlled by the Guild. They resign themselves to patterns in return for privilege.”
Dante clearly doesn’t understand what it feels like to be dragged from your family. I acted out of fear for my safety. I let them cage me in the Coventry for too long because I thought they were in control. I didn’t act because I thought I didn’t have a choice.
“It’s not always easy to accept that you have power,” I say instead. “Especially when the world is dedicated to telling you that you don’t.”
“You’re an exception, Adelice,” Dante says. “And that’s thanks to your parents.”
His words are complimentary. He means them. But his mask slips for a moment, revealing his scars again.
“They understood,” I say, the realization hitting like a sudden gust of wind on a static day. “They knew what I would face, because of you. Because you ran.”
“I felt like half of myself in Arras—always hiding my gift instead of embracing it. Here, I thought I might be able to do something with my skill,” Dante admits.
“How did you find the courage to leave?” I ask.
“Stories,” he answers in a conspiratorial whisper. “Stories are dangerous and useful things.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE POOL STRETCHES OUT BEFORE ME. A dozen squat white lampposts line the space, their soft glow mirrored in the water below. It’s the indoor pool’s only light source now that no sun shines through the windows overhead. The water is as smooth as glass, gold-flecked tiles peeking through the cerulean surface. Although it’s quiet, I spot a shape moving forward under the water. Erik strokes evenly across the pool, the barest ripple following him. His hair is a golden halo flowing behind him. I wait by the side, surprised by how long he can stay under the water.
His head breaks through, shattering the water’s surface. He rubs at his eyes and smiles at me. “Ad, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
“I see you found swimming trunks,” I say. I’m not ready to address the real reason that I’ve come.
“Sort of. I’m using the fishing-village version,” he says. His arms perch on the side of the pool, and his eyes are as bright as the brilliant tiles.
I slip my shoes off and roll down my stockings. “And what does this version consist of?”
“Sorry,” Erik says, pretending to fan himself. “You’re distracting me. What did you say?”
I frown at him, sitting down and dipping my feet into the water. It’s warmer than I would have expected.
“When I was a kid, working the fishing boats in Saxun, we took off as much of our clothes as possible, without revealing our, uh,
“You have a treasure?” I say, widening my eyes in feigned innocence.
“You gonna pillage it?” he asks.
“I walked into that one,” I admit with a groan.
“Yes,” Erik says, “you did.”
His finger traces a spot on my calf, leaving a trickle of water on my bare skin, and I swat his hand away.
“That’s one huge scar,” he says. I frown and look to see what he means. A thin, pale line slants across my leg. “Where did you get it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, drawing my knees up and clutching them to my chest. “It’s probably from my retrieval night. They used a claw to pull me out of the escape tunnel. The renewal patch must have left a scar.”
“It shouldn’t have,” Erik says, squinting to get a better look at it. I don’t care about the scar. It’s only a remnant of a past life.
“Erik.” But I stop on his name, searching for the right way to ask him about what Dante told me about the tracking device. It doesn’t take me long to realize there is no right way.
“You’re going to chew off your lip,” Erik warns me, and I relax my mouth into a tight line. “Just ask me.”
