“Sleep well,” he said, pushing the triple cello case fully into her hands. Zada took it gratefully.
“Goodnight,” she said, stepping inside. When she turned to watch him go, she couldn’t quite make her eyes focus on his figure. All she could see was a receding blur, a smudge against the illumination of the grow lights, and then he was gone.
Zada’s parents were waiting for her in the kitchen, and she pasted on a smile when she saw them. There was a slight sheen to their faces. It could have been excitement or the hot, wet air from the hydroponics.
“There she is!” her mother cried, scooping Zada up in a tight, rib-bruising hug. “Congratulations, Z! How was it? Tell us everything. Was he charming? Did you talk about the future? You lingered at the door for an awfully long time. Did you have your first kiss? Was it absolutely electrifying?”
Electrifying.Zada’s mind leapt to that moment when she’d had Daphne pinned against the wall, how it felt to watch the rapid rise and fall of Daphne’s breathing. Her senses had seemed briefly heightened, the colors of the world supersaturated.
“Portia,” said her father reprovingly. “Give her some space. She’ll tell us in her own time.” Her mother relinquished her, and he darted in to give Zada a hug of his own. “I wonder if your children will have that auburn hair,” he mused once he’d let her go. “Dark blond is recessive, if I remember correctly. I believe the reddish shades are recessive as well, which presents an interesting possibility—”
“Now look who’s talking,” her mother said, lightly swatting at her husband. “Don’t rush her. Children aren’t your concern right now, Zada. This is the season of romance. You know, when that music started, I could’ve cried. It was so beautiful.”
“It was,” said Zada.
“And knocking him over like that!” Her mother laughed. “Like something from a story.”
“I thought that too,” Zada admitted.
Father cleared his throat. “When your mom and I think of the sacrifices we’ve made to bring you this far, it all—”
“Don’t listen to him,” Mother broke in, still smiling. “Sacrifices? We would pay our share of your schooling a thousand more times if it meant knowing you would end up with such a perfect match!”
“I think I’m going to go to bed,” said Zada.
“Of course, dear!” Mother gave another light little laugh. “You’re allowed to be tired. You’ve only had the most exciting day of your entire life!”
“We’re so proud,” said Father. They each gave her one last hug, and Zada climbed the stairs to her bedroom, door clicking shut behind her. For the first time in many hours, she was finally alone.
Chapter FiveFalse Congratulations from Real People, and Real Congratulations from False People
The first thing Zada did, out of years of ingrained habit, was tend to her triple cello. She wiped down the body, checked the battery life, and then nestled it back into its plush case, which she slid into the parcher station in her closet and connected to power. Calibrated to fifty percent humidity, it was the one spot in the house that wasn’t dripping with condensation.
The second order of business was to sink down onto her bed and do absolutely nothing. She lay very still, nestled into her soft comforter, her sore and throbbing feet hanging over the edge. Flora’s shoes were in a heap by the front door. Thankfully, the blisters on her heels hadn’t bled and the flats remained pristine, ready to return to Flora when her honeymoon was over.
Zada waited for sleep to take her, but despite her bone-deep exhaustion, her mind was still whirring away, cataloguing every awkward silence, every embarrassing snub, every misstep from the last few hours. She needed something to settle her thoughts. A movie, perhaps. Something sweet and fluffy, the sort of thing she and Flora used to watch together when theywere procrastinating on schoolwork.
Zada activated her lenses and her earring and closed her eyes, flicking from one trailer to the next. She blinked twice, cueing up the first movie she could find with a happy ending and very limited audience participation—after hours of high emotions, simply nodding and smiling to move the story forward felt like all she could manage.
To Whom It May Concernwas a rom-com she’d watched once, when she and Flora were avoiding an essay on societal roles in the modern era or something like that. The story involved a man and a woman in their early twenties who lived in the same high-end high rise. And, in true rom-com fashion, they were feuding with each other. Every day, they left each other a series of increasingly passive-aggressive notes, only to discover by accident that the two of them shared a Heartsong. The rest of the movie covered their humorous, touching journey to realizing they were perfect for each other after all.
The setup was longer and slower than Zada remembered. She watched as the characters were introduced, their notes exchanged. And then came the pivotal moment: The woman stepped out onto her balcony during a holiday party and ended up embroiled in an argument with her nemesis, who just so happened to be on the balcony below her. When the woman leaned over to punctuate a point, the railing gave way and she fell, plunging for the length of a rose-tinted montage of her life, before the man caught her and reeled her back onto his balcony as their Heartsong erupted around them. The partygoers, who conveniently appeared on the balcony above, cheered and even wept at the revelation of true love while the camera zoomed in on the woman’s stunned, upset face.
Zada paused the movie and opened her eyes. She remembered watching this scene with Flora. She remembered laughing and eagerly leaning forward to take in the rest of the story as it played in the dark between them, longing for the moment the woman stopped being such a fool and learned that she loved her destined match after all.
But now—
Her stomach hurt. That was easily explained. She’d barely eaten at the wedding. And wasn’t meeting your true love famous for giving you stomach butterflies? Zada leapt up, shedding her comforter, and paced the room. It had been her refuge since she had returned home from school, to the point where the damp hardwood floors and cool blue hangings were beginning to feel like an extension of her mind. The air was too wet to allow for old-fashioned paper posters, and her window was frequently glazed with condensation, allowing only the glow of the council-approved lights from outside. But one wall featured a decent projection of an underwater scene, which she had chosen as a child for the benefit of her albino goldfish, Dashwood. She’d been too young to realize that a fish could barely see beyond its tank, or to understand that this was a blessing for the poor little creature.
When she closed her eyes, the actress’s face filled Zada’s vision, features frozen in horror. Of course, it was completely unrealistic that anyone would react so openly to what they considered an unfavorable Heartsong. Zada had spent ages in etiquette class learning the importance of controlling your expression at such moments.
Zada opened her eyes again. She mentally recited the Founders Creed three times. The third time she reached “Iwill always remember that what confounds me today may comfort me tomorrow,” she felt a little calmer.
Without thinking about it too hard, she slid out her lenses, returned them to their charging hub and redirected her pacing to her bookcase. It was her favorite piece of furniture in the unit, inherited from her father. Heavy, ancient, and awkwardly large, the roomy shelves had been built for a time when there were far more books in the world and they needed to be stored as individual paper volumes. The approved reading for New Ionians had been through several major curations since then, mostly excluding works of an obscene or otherwise morally harmful nature. These days, the entire contents of the New Ionian library could fit on a single slim reader. Zada’s mother had helped her convert most of the shelves into cubbies to store and charge her lenses, her earring, and her reader, plus a place to house Dashwood’s tank, the most expensive item in the room besides her triple cello. Dashwood resided in a closed-loop system, the water glowing blue-green from specially bred algae.
Zada put her nose to the glass. Dashwood blinked at her with bulging milky eyes and swam away, disappearing into the small forest of seaweed in the back.
“Fine, be that way,” Zada muttered, straightening.
