The threads are dying, oozing away on the cold steel, but when I reach out to fix them the bands of the loom slice open my hands and fingers.

To save them I must bleed.

I reach forward and catch the sticky strands between my thumb and index finger and I see them.

Jost and Amie and Dante. They’re dying.

Erik. His beautiful face contorts into a mask of anguish, and I begin to work without hesitation. Spurred by the ache in my chest that pulses with each cut of my fingers as I try to help him.

I twist and I tangle and I try to stop the blood ebbing from the strands, but as I do, I bleed more and more and more. A puddle forms at my feet and I know there’s no way to save them all.

I begin to shake but then I hear a voice. “Adelice, wake up!”

The world blurs into focus and I open my eyes to find my sister standing over me with a frown on her face. I must have fallen asleep in a chair.

“You were dreaming,” she says. “It sounded like a nightmare.”

It was, but I don’t tell her that. Instead I reach out and hug her close to me. For a second it’s awkward, but she settles into my embrace. Her soft blond hair tickles my skin. We are right again.

“Are you okay?” She pulls away and looks at me with concern.

“I’m fine. I don’t even remember the dream,” I lie.

“I came to tell you that you were amazing on the Stream. I wish I could’ve been there, but Cormac forbade me.”

I frown at this. Since when does Cormac care what Amie does? He’s given her the run of the place since she arrived.

“I can leave if you’re tired,” she says, misinterpreting my frown. I shake my head. The dream sticks to me like the blood on the loom. I want Amie to stay because I need her. She strokes my hand, reminding me of our mother.

“What’s this?” Amie reaches out and runs a soft finger over my techprint.

“Credentials,” I say without thinking. I immediately wish I could take it back.

“From when you were with the revolutionaries?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly. Amie wasn’t there to see Benn—the man we both knew as our father—print me on the night of my retrieval. She doesn’t remember that our parents were the ones who pushed us into those tunnels.

“Adelice, you’re lying to me,” she says in a low voice. “I know it. You keep lying to me. It’s like you forget that I’m your sister sometimes. I know you well enough to know when you’re telling me the truth.”

I sigh. This Amie isn’t the one I whispered to at night or opened Winter Solstice presents with. She’s different now. Hesitant where she was once vivacious. She doesn’t run to me like she did when we were girls at academy. We don’t share the same memories or experiences. Even though I want to trust her, I can’t keep the Guild from using her against me.

“Amie, they monitor everything we say to each other,” I tell her, choosing a logical reason to keep things from her.

“They’re listening to us?” she asks. She’s still very girlish sometimes in her trust of the Guild, so she doesn’t see the twisted mechanisms at work here.

“Yes. And I don’t think Cormac wants me to talk about my time on Earth,” I say, knowing I don’t want to tell her, either. “It’s not safe for you to know, and I don’t want to relive it.”

“Was it terrible?” she asks.

It’s a testament to how dependent she is that she doesn’t see I’m unhappy here.

“No it wasn’t, but it’s in the past.”

“And that’s it? I was out of your life for years, and you won’t share what happened to you? Or why you don’t look any older than you did the night they came for you?” Her lower lip trembles like when she was a girl and our mom told her no.

“I can’t,” I say. Her face sinks and she stands to leave. “I can’t tell you about all of it.”

Amie sits back down and waits with an eager expression.

“This isn’t a secret,” I say. “At least, not one that Cormac cares about.”

“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.