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.

I don’t listen to Cormac’s answer because I know it’s lies. He’s feeding the progressive dissenters what they want to hear: Look, I’ll give a woman some power on the Stream. We’re moving forward, so stop worrying your pretty heads about the fate of the future generations.

But anyone with half a brain would notice I’m not allowed to speak. They would see my pristine costume, specifically chosen to look demure and womanly on the camera, and know I have no more power than they do. Cormac’s plan is to show them that even a woman of great power is willing to lay it aside and become a wife. But I can hardly expect them to know that when even Cormac doesn’t take my power seriously.

And yet, he placed me on this loom tonight. If I were a true rebel, I would never have done what he asked. I would have wreaked havoc over the entire Southern Sector, throwing it into an uprising. But even as I think this I spot the techprint on my wrist.

That’s not who I am. Unlike Cormac, I have no desire to abuse my skills to hurt the innocent. He knew that when he placed me here tonight. He’s calling my bluff, but he doesn’t know the cards I’ve hidden up my sleeve, especially not the access card I swiped from one of the guards. Cormac knows I’m a Tailor, though I don’t think he’s considered exactly how I could use that to my advantage.

But I have.

TEN

THE DREAM IS THE SAME. I am in a white room. When I look closely I see them. Frozen. Trapped. The faces of those I have loved and lost. My father. Enora. Loricel. They stare at me with dead eyes from translucent faces. Their mouths are twisted open, but struck dumb.

And still I go to each of them and ask them how to help. Nothing changes, so I return to the loom. On it are strands, but they are bloody. A bow is tied across the polished top of the loom, a single card dangling from it, reading: Choose.