“It is magic. And there’s magic you can do with it, if you have the power. To take something tangled and faulty, and spin it until it’s smooth and strong—now there’s work that’s worth doing!” She halted the spindle, keeping her new thread stretched between it and her hand. “Take it. Don’t let it spin backward, or the work comes undone.”
Nervous and eager, Sandry obeyed. Both spindle and thread felt very warm to the touch. Lark slipped the wool rolag into the girl’s right hand, pressing the point where fiber became thread between Sandry’s thumb and two fingers.
The girl squeaked with surprise and dropped the spindle. It whirled in reverse. The leader yarn lost its grip on the new thread, which untwisted itself. She was left with a handful of unspun wool. “Donkey dung!” Sandry blushed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—”
Lark chuckled. “I know exactly how you feel. It happens so much faster when it all goes to pieces. Pick it up. Lay two inches of leader yarn over two inches of wool fiber.” As Sandry obeyed, Lark went on, “Think of something outside the work—your heartbeat, perhaps, or your breathing. Twirl the stem clockwise. Draw the wool gently from the rolag into your thread. Let the spindle drop slowly to the ground as your new thread lengthens.”
Sandry trembled still as she flicked the stem to the right. The spindle twirled. She had to let the tool fall, but she also had to feed bits of wool into the thread. She could only use one hand to steady her new thread, because didn’t she have to give the stem of the spindle another twirl? It must be winding down.
She looked down just as the spindle slowed almost to a halt—then twirled in the opposite direction. The thread fell apart, dabs of wool dropping to the floor. “Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt,” she muttered, smacking her forehead.
Patiently, Lark helped her to begin again. “Think of a rhythmic sound—one you like to hear. One that’s soothing.” Lark’s voice was soft and as warm as honey. Listening made Sandry a bit drowsy. “Close your eyes for a moment and listen for it. It’ll help you keep control over the spin.”
Eyes shut tight, Sandry listened, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she listened for. A rhythmic sound, a soothing one? Her thoughts skipped to the past, to last winter. After she had come out of the storeroom, Niko had found her a bedchamber in the Hataran king’s palace, above the room where the royal weavers did their work. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, at first she had refused to take an interest in anything. Why did she have to? Her entire world was dead.
The beat of looms under the floor pressed on her. Without her wanting it, the bump-thwack they sounded, dawn to dusk, wove into her breath and heartbeat. One Sunsday, soon after Midwinter, all the looms fell silent. This happened every Sunsday, which was a rest day, but she had never cared before. Now she was restless, angry. She slept badly. The next day the chorus of looms began at dawn, and she sat up to listen. When Niko arrived an hour later, she still sat up.
Looms sounding in her ears, Sandrilene fa Toren spun.
“I have to wind the thread,” Lark murmured. The girl blinked and looked at her work. With the dedicate to guide her hands, she had managed to spin two entire feet of thread. It was perfect, except that there were four large bumps, each the same distance from its fellows.
“Where did those come from?” she asked, confused. “I didn’t feel any lumps.”
“You were thinking of new life,” Lark replied. “You thought of it, and you spun it.”
“Then new life has lumps in it,” Sandry remarked. “Let me try this again.”
“Better yet, we start afresh. Let’s take the old thread off.” The dedicate’s slender fingers undid the ties that bound Sandry’s thread to the spindle. She wound it onto a bobbin and put it in the girl’s lap. “Keep that,” she said. “And keep it safe. It’s your first thread—it’s important.”
There was plenty of light remaining in the day when the Discipline residents gathered for supper, without Niko. Carving the chicken, Rosethorn looked around the table and said, “You, boy—”
“Briar,” he said quietly. He was afraid to look at her. She might remember that he’d touched the plants that wound around strings, and punish him.
“Briar, you have hands attached somewhere, do you not? Pass the bread to—” Rosethorn squinted at Tris.
“Tris,” Lark said helpfully.
Rosethorn made a face. “And you, Sandry—I’ll take that.”
The girl handed over a bowl of rice, lentils, and onions.
“And this one—” Rosethorn nodded toward the Trader.
Daja stared into space, hearing the ring of fuller on hot metal—she didn’t notice that Rosethorn was trying to pass a dish of chicken to her. At last the dedicate thrust it under her nose. Daja came to herself with a start. “What?” she asked, startled.
Briar snickered.
“Daja, is it? I remember now. Well, Daja, would you be so kind as to relieve me of this?” Rosethorn demanded. “Before my hand falls off?”
A blush stained Daja’s cheeks. Hastily she took the plate.
Rosethorn looked at Briar, who was eating as fast as he could. “Slow down,” she ordered. “By the time it reaches us, the food no longer tries to run off the dishes.”
Briar met her gaze. Under fine brows—knit together in her normal, irritated expression—she had large, brown eyes with a touch of humor in their depths. His pace slowed. As if his mouth had a mind of its own, Briar heard it ask, “What does it mean when a tree has some green leaves and some brown?” He cringed, waiting for a slap.