‘No,’ Enora says, looking directly at the other woman. ‘Spinsters don’t have escorts at events held within the Coventry, remember?’

‘I must have forgotten,’ the woman says flatly, and turns back to her other conversation.

I guess we won’t be friends after all.

‘Don’t worry, your dress is ready,’ Enora whispers from her spot a few spaces down.

‘I didn’t think I’d have to ward off Cormac for a while,’ I mutter, not sure she can hear me.

Enora snorts. ‘Think again.’

11

The whole event is over-the-top. I should have expected as much with Guild officials in attendance, but despite my being used to feeling surprised at the ridiculousness of the Coventry, this is too much.

It began with my dress. I’d felt out of place in my gown at the ribbon-cutting ceremony in Cypress, but tonight I feel naked. Even now as I idly shake hands and dance with official after official, I feel nothing like myself. At least with my usual wardrobe of dress suits I’m mostly covered. To say this dress leaves nothing to the imagination is an understatement. Made of emerald-green silk, it flows along the curves of my body. Not that I have any, but something about this gown – and the subsequent lack of underwear it necessitates – makes it look like I do. It drapes down and rests at my tailbone, exposing my entire back, and I don’t even want to think about the front. The thinness of the vibrant silk feels like nothing at all. I might as well clutch some fig leaves and hide in the corner.

The photographers go wild over nearly nude me and over Pryana, who’s dressed in a strapless black velvet gown that lets one of her long amber legs slip through a thigh-high slit to reveal she’s stockingless. As they click and capture, I spy a whole pig on a spit in the middle of the room, an apple shoved ceremoniously in its mouth. I know just how it feels. Pryana seems much more comfortable in front of the cameras, flashing her dazzling smile and striking spontaneous poses. I don’t usually fall into the shy category, but I’ve never been the centre of attention like this before.

A strong hand grabs my elbow and keeps me from fading into the background of the party. ‘You’re at my table,’ Cormac whispers in my ear.

‘My dream come true,’ I reply.

‘I’m sorry?’ he says in a voice that dares me to repeat myself.

‘I said, lead the way.’

Our table is the first in a carefully ordered line near the podium, and far from the noise of the dance floor. As Cormac pulls my chair out for me, I glance at the other name cards. I recognise several of the names, and the throbbing panic I’m trying to hide pulses harder.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Cormac asks.

I take one more look around the room, recognising nearly every man here from the Streams I watched as a child, and nod.

‘Sooner or later everyone takes up drinking.’ He laughs and makes his way over to a small bar in the corner.

I’m inspecting the silver service when the rest of our table joins us. I’m stuck with a group of politicians and their wives. I keep my head down except to take hurried sips of the wine Cormac brings me. Loricel takes a seat, and I feel relief loosen the panic in my chest, but she stares up at the podium, blowing air through her nearly closed lips. The other women ignore her – and me – giggling about so-and-so’s dress and who’s gone bald. The men discuss policies and people I’ve never heard of. I find myself intensely grateful for the drink Cormac brought me, even if I can barely handle the way it burns my throat.

Servers arrive with giant silver platters, and I marvel at their ability to carry them. Most of the waiters are typical, gaunt lower-class assignees, brought in especially for the occasion. Fewer rations means less eating, which means less muscle tone. But they balance the platters and serve each plate with precise ease. At least there’s food here. I unfold my napkin in anticipation, but Cormac pulls it out of my hands and places it back on the table.

‘Not until they bring your plate,’ he mutters. There’s a tinge of horror in his voice at my faux pas.

I keep my eyes on my plate after that. A salad of bitter greens with bits of tart fruit and a sweet dressing. Soup with shark fin and leeks. A large, leaking steak for the men, and petite slices of chicken over a bed of rice for the women. I can’t help eyeing Cormac’s dinner.

‘Here,’ he says, holding up a forkful. ‘You already look like you’re wasting away.’

I savour the bite of juicy meat, and the woman across from me stares as I eat it.

‘Magdalena,’ Cormac says in mock admonishment, and she giggles.

‘I can’t remember the last time I saw a woman eat beef,’ she admits, and the other two wives at the table laugh in agreement.

‘We eat it at the Coventry,’ I say, and then flush for drawing attention to myself.

‘Of course you do,’ Magdalena says. ‘You have third-gen renewal patching. Only second gen is available to us.’

‘Oh.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about.

‘I heard they’re working on a fourth gen,’ another wife says in a low voice as the men return to talk of politics.

‘Good, they’ll finally release third gen for the rest of us,’ Magdalena says to the other wives. ‘Of course, I can’t imagine what fourth gen is.’

‘I hear it’s as if they put you back in the womb. You come out like a baby,’ the other tells her.

Magdalena’s eyes stay on me. ‘I’ll settle for third gen.’