About Sisterland by Martina Devlin

senses. She knew it could not possibly be authentic, because fire had been designated unsafe and banned.
    Down the centre of the room stretched a dining table laden with food to suit all palates. There were nasturtium pasties, spring quiches, hyacinth flans and full moon rolls, with fruit, cheese and nuts for anyone preferring to nibble. Women were gathered by the table, grazing and chattering. Many held heavy glass goblets, and pages moved about replenishing them.
    But what caught Constance’s attention was the magnificent dresses of the women, similar to those in the paintings: sleeves falling to a point below their knees and hems dragging on the rushes covering the floor.
    There were other women in leggings, like Constance, and they were clustered round a wooden chest, out of which spilled an array of gowns in jewel shades. She drew closer, watching while each woman made her choice, fondling the luxurious materials. One passed nearby holding a moss-green length of cloth, and Constance couldn’t help herself touching its sleeve. The woman smiled at her, glittering with excitement. Why, it really was velvet! Constance had expected some synthetic alternative. Her eyes flicked back to the chest. Then those glorious sweeps of material must really be satin, silk and brocade, rather than a wipe-clean facsimile. She tracked the woman with the velvet dress over her arm. Half a floor above, a minstrels’ gallery ran the length of the room. It had a series of wood-panelled alcoves. She saw the woman enter one, and emerge a few minutes later in the gown.
    “Welcome. I’m the Tower’s Mating Mother.” A diminutive woman, hips almost as narrow as her waist, appeared in front of Constance. Her voice reminded Constance of reeds sighing – she had to bend forward to hear above the hubbub.
    Like her staff, the Mating Mother wore black and white, but it wasn’t a uniform. Or maybe it was, in its way. She had on a gown similar to those in the chest, edged in white fur, with a train that fell from her shoulders and rippled on the ground behind her. Constance had never seen anything so sumptuous. Most astonishing of all, however, was her waist-length black hair. Constance couldn’t take her eyes off it. Hadn’t Beloved urged short hair, for practical reasons? Somehow, over time, it had become mandatory. She supposed it must be a wig, a perk restricted to high-ranking sisters. The Mating Mother ran a hand over her waterfall of hair, smoothing it. Constance was fascinated: how genuine it looked.
    The Mating Mother beckoned to draw her apart from the women noisily handling gowns. As she moved, a ring of keys at her waist chimed. They caught Constance’s attention: keys were a relic of the PS era, and only seen in museum display cases. Come to think of it, being in matingplace was almost like walking about in a museum.
    “It’s more like being in the theatre,” the Mating Mother corrected her.
    Constance jumped. She should remember she wasn’t just dealing with a petite woman in elaborate costume, but a mother, who must therefore be skilled at mindmapping. She ought to be careful about the direction of her thoughts.
    “No need,” said the Mating Mother. “You’re among friends. The Sisterland cherishes you, Constance, and never more so than at this special time.”
    “Thank you, mother. What did you mean by ‘like being in the theatre’?”
    “I’ve been told you didn’t have a chance to go to a mating seminar. It’s explained there. You see, mating happens within a context which transcends normal life. It’s like a performance, and the pageantry of the readying room helps to prepare you for that. That’s why we chose this setting: because we know our sisters are drawn to these obsolete trappings, even though they have no place in their daily lives. We provide them to allow you to enjoy the fantasy, but also to see it for what it is.”
    “You said a performance, mother. Will I be watched?”
    “Great Beloved, no!