CREWEL by Gennifer Albin

from the metro center, and small houses and stores dotting the perimeter in perfect spirals. The plants are the only parts of the landscapes that seem to vary. In Romen, we had grass and looming elm trees, bushes, and carefully preened flowers in yellow and white. But these metros have palm trees, pines, ferns, and tall yellow grass; these are plants I’ve only seen on screens during academy lessons. The differences are minute, but seeing all of Arras before me is exciting.

“Welcome to the Western Coventry and may your hands be blessed,” the woman’s voice concludes.

The final image is one of a towering complex that I’ve seen dozens of times in academy. It’s where I sit now: the Western Coventry. Several girls squeal with delight but I feel the weight of the concrete and brick pressing down on me. There’s nothing exciting about the compound. It’s walled. Industrial. It’s what it stands for—the promise of power and privilege—that thrills the others. But all I see is the lack of windows and how it rises like an endless cage into the cloudless sky. No one can ever escape it.

“You don’t look so good,” Pryana whispers to me as the vlip fades away. “Did the images give you motion sickness?”

I shake my head, genuinely pleased by her concern. “I’m fine.

It’s just been a long few days.”

“Well, I for one am ready to get on those looms. I’ve been dying to since testing,” she says, her coffee-black eyes sparkling at the prospect.

“You haven’t gotten to try them out yet?” I ask, more than a little surprised.

“No,” Pryana confirms. “So far it’s been measurements, etiquette lessons, and small-group vlips. Let’s see. We’ve been 78