into his satchel. Then he took out a needle. It was long and curved.
Still singing, he plucked a strand of membrane out of the air. She had asked him once why she couldn’t use the Work in reality, and he’d said it simply wasn’t that kind of thing—and yet here he was, threading the membrane through the eye of the needle like purple silk. It went agreeably, stretching and thinning to slip easily in. As he bent over her sleeping body, the needle fell from his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice it was gone. His thumb and first finger were still pinched together as though he held it, and she understood that the needle was like the blood: a crutch. A way in. A method of activating the Work so he could do what he was doing now, as Judah watched with growing horror: humming his stupid song and sewing the membrane into Judah’s body like he was embroidering a pillowcase. Sometimes he pushed the thread all the way through her, catching it on the other side and sending it back. Sometimes he actually reached into her to retrieve it. Her unconscious self didn’t wake but moaned and writhed. He made small soothing noises, but almost to himself; stroked her filthy hair, but didn’t stop. Everything about him said that he felt he had every right to do what he was doing. The drifting gaze he cast down at her was affectionate, almost loving. The body on the floor was only a memory; but watching the magus Work made her arms twitch to cover herself. She was revolted, but she had to see what had happened to her. She had to know.
As she watched, the pitch and volume of his humming increased. His breath grew ragged and his pale cheeks flushed. Still his hands moved, weaving the stuff of the tower in and out of her, and if they had seemed unsteady before, they were smooth and confident now. His eyes closed. His hand sewed.
Then, all at once, his shoulders hunched and he let out a cry, small and shuddering. His hands slowed and stopped. He was still.
If Judah had been repulsed before, now she felt sick and furious. She wanted to reach into him and tear him apart. She couldn’t do that; he wasn’t actually there. This wasn’t her memory or his, but the memory of the tower itself. The Work, the tra la la song, his shabby climax—all were in the past. All she could do was observe as he put her dirty blanket over her, as he wrapped up the food he’d brought so it would stay fresh. He made no effort to clean himself. As he moved around the tower, he mindlessly picked up the fallen needle, and when he stood again Judah caught a glimpse of his eyes and they, too, unfolded, just like the stitch had.
And then she was inside the magus, and she didn’t know if she had slipped into the real magus, as she had the real Caterina, or if this was some half-formed tower-memory, so she was cautious. He had no idea what had happened. He knew about the weaving, but he didn’t know he’d dropped the needle before he’d started and he didn’t know he’d come as he’d finished. She wondered what he’d thought when he’d undressed at home, what story he told himself to explain the mess.
Very carefully, she found the locked door and discovered that it stood open. Not all the way open; not enough for her to step through, but enough for her to peek through the crack.
A terrifying-looking old woman with white hair and cruel eyes. His teacher. The one who wouldn’t tell him his mother loved him.
The tower must have more of a hold on her than the boy does when the Unbinding comes.
I think the weaving hurts her, the magus-memory said, and a white flash of pain filled his eyes. The old woman cackled.
Did that hurt you, Nathaniel? Don’t be pathetic. It doesn’t matter if it hurts her.
That was it. That was all she could see. She slammed the whole scene shut like a book. With a flash of anger she made her dress go away—she would have torn it off, but in the Work she had only to will it gone—and looked down at her own body as if she’d never seen it before. Which she supposed she hadn’t. She had certainly never seen the purple seams that traversed it, so much