Free Crewel by Gennifer Albin Page A

pay closer attention during your orientation,’ she says with a sigh, ushering me inside the other wing of the compound.
    ‘It’s just . . .’ I struggle with exactly how to express my confused feelings about the boy in the garden. ‘Why are there boys here?’
    ‘There are a lot of tasks we can’t do for ourselves,’ she says matter-of-factly.
    I give a slight nod, but I can’t quite hide the fact that I don’t buy it.
    ‘Spinsters have important work to do,’ Enora says, lowering her voice. ‘The men make sure everything around here functions, and . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see she’s making a choice.
    ‘And?’ I prompt.
    ‘They’re security,’ she finishes.
    ‘Are we in danger?’ I ask in surprise.
    ‘Us? No,’ she says, and there’s bitter edge to her voice. ‘The Guild isn’t keen on a compound made up entirely of women.’
    Enora wasn’t lying when she said she’d answer my questions, but I’m taken back by the trust she’s shown me already. Considering she knows my biggest secret, I suppose it makes sense.
    ‘You’ll be with the rest of the Eligibles today. Make friends,’ she says, changing the subject to the task at hand.
    ‘It’s the first day of academy all over again,’ I mutter, eyeing the gaggle of women gathered around a large oak door.
    ‘Yes,’ she says, taking my shoulders in her tiny hands and directing my eyes back to hers. ‘But you’ll live with these girls for the rest of your life.’
    I swallow hard. Academy doesn’t seem so long ago, and yet the faces of the girls in my class are slipping away. It was one long beauty contest, each girl treading a fine line, maintaining the purity standards expected of Eligibles, while doing everything in her power to outshine the rest. Every week, someone had discovered something close to, but not quite, a cosmetic. I hadn’t been very good at gushing and primping. Pinch my cheeks? No thanks. Cosmetics and beauty treatments might be a reward for good behaviour growing up, and necessary when finally stepping into the less segregated work world, but here they feel like an even bigger joke than purity standards. As though we’ll be happy to waste away behind locked doors if we can look pretty.
    Making my way to join the group, I try to maintain a neutral expression. We’re crowded in a plain hallway, waiting for the door in front of us to open. But the other girls, having broken into several smaller groups, maintain a steady stream of chatter with one another. It’s a motley group – a lithe girl with delicately braided oil-black hair; another with skin the colour of rich coffee, her hair short and waved close to her scalp; girls with platinum hair and tailored blouses. I wonder if they are excited or nervous. If they have sold their souls for large bathtubs and fireplaces. If they’ll do anything the Guild asks of them.
    Two young officers usher us into a vast, open space filled with rows and rows of carefully placed chairs pointed towards a blank white wall. We file in and take our seats. The other girls sit together, giggling and chattering. I watch as a blonde girl reaches to touch the hair of the girl next to her. They’re so familiar with one another. These girls weren’t kept in cells, and they’ve obviously spent time together before now. I’ve missed a lot in the last few days.
    The girl with oil-black hair drops into the chair next to mine. I can smell a rich hint of coconut drifting from her. Up close her skin is tawny, and her long legs stream past her pencil skirt. She must be half a foot taller than me at least – without heels. I can’t help but feel a little jealous of her exotic beauty as well as how relaxed she is in her new role. To my surprise she turns to speak to me. ‘They’ve broken us into two groups. You’re in mine.’
    ‘Do I look lost?’ I ask with a sheepish grin.
    ‘No, you look overwhelmed,’ she responds. ‘It’s easy to tell you’re new, because most of us