Grabbing her reader from off the shelf, she swiped past the page of recommended books and tapped on her annotated copy ofPersuasion. The reader opened automatically to chapter 23. She scanned down the page to the beginning of a very familiar passage, what she thought of as The Letter. Anne Elliot—the intelligent and virtuous spinster who took the life-ruining advice seven years prior to reject her true love,Captain Wentworth—had just given the captain reason to hope, causing him to pen a note confessing the depth and passion of his feelings.
“I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul . . .”
She and Flora had taken turns reading the book aloud to each other in school, laughing as Daphne insisted on pantomiming the words until it was all comically literal and Carine made some wry comment, like “I hope they make ointment for that piercing. No need to get an infected soul spewing soul pus.”
Nobody was to think about Carine, but in the privacy of her room, Zada allowed herself the space of a few breaths to break the Founders Creed’s fifth rule: “I will be reasonable. I will not stoke the fires of resentment or regret in my heart.” She couldn’t help it. She missed her friend. She missed what she and Carine, Flora, Augusta, and Daphne had been together, that feeling of being one note in a perfect harmony.
Zada still remembered the thrill she’d felt as she’d dramatically declaimed, “I am half agony, half hope.” Even Carine had been momentarily struck quiet.
It had sounded guiltily exciting, to be able to pierce someone’s soul, to have one’s soul pierced in turn. She had wondered how she would feel when the day finally came, if her own romance could possibly compare to that giddying rush of Anne and Captain Wentworth finally being honest with each other, opening their hearts to each other. And it did compare, she reminded herself sternly. They had crashed into each other at a wedding dance. Buford had even shown the presence of mind to quote poetry. It had been everything Zada had everdreamed of.
Zada had revisited chapter 23 ofPersuasionmany times since that sunny afternoon at Dalrymple, but now, reading those same words again, it felt like pushing on a bruise.
There was no reason for Zada’s eyes to be welling up. There was no reason for this sinking feeling behind her breastbone. She and Flora had both found their soulmates. They’d achieved their happy endings.
But Zada’s soul was not remotely pierced.
The reader slid out of her hands and landed on the floor with a concerning thump. The longer she sat there,Persuasionlying at her feet, the more certain she grew. She felt like she was the one teetering out of that movie balcony, but she had nobody to catch her and reel her back.
She forced her eyes open wider, to delay the tears, and tried to dredge up some passion, some flood of emotion for her soulmate. She thought of Buford helping her to her feet after she’d knocked him over, the touch of his hand against hers, the press of their lips together on her front step. Had she felt anything at all beyond a certain self-consciousness, a thread of apprehension reminding her how important this moment was supposed to be? Had any of it, any of it at all been about Buford himself, his voice or his auburn curls or his handsome face? There was no question in her mind: No matter how Zada ransacked her own heart, she could dig up no feeling for him deeper than a vague sense of friendship. And she strongly suspected he felt the same.
She did not love him. It was that simple. She did not love him, and she did not know how long she could pretend that she did. Zada didn’t fall asleep that night for a long, long time.
When Zada awoke, it was to the sound of Dad humming as he attempted to make pancakes.
Zada lay in bed for a long moment, longer than she was supposed to. (Founders Creed rule two: “I will be unselfish. I will always work as hard as I can to build a better life for New Ionians everywhere, without sloth or distraction.”) It wasn’t the end of the world, she reminded herself. She would need Counseling. Most people did. Marriage was work—everyone knew that. She went over the Founders Creed twice for good measure.
With that done, she rolled out of bed and dressed, taking a moment as always to be thankful for the science of quick-cooling fabrics that allowed her to cover enough skin to stay fashionable. She applied a small amount of makeup over her typical layer of sun serum. Just enough to create the illusion of a peaceful night’s sleep. She was just setting her final layer of foundation when she realized that it likely didn’t matter. Anyone who knew her and saw the bags under her eyes would assume she had stayed up late thinking of Buford. It was convenient, that she didn’t need to cover for herself here in order to maintain appearances. Somehow, it also made her feel as though she were inside a heavy collapsing box.
Zada breathed in and out. She made herself read the instructions on her foundation, and then on her sun serum. It had reached its sell-by date two days ago, but her mother and father were still paying off a fine for water wasting after the hydroponics lab below them sprung a leak. It was not the time to bother them with trivialities. She would wear a hat if she needed to go out, she decided. Her nicest bonnet was alittle crooked from her latest attempt to retrim it in a more current style—feathers instead of flowers—but its retractable sun shade still worked.
“Your mom is busy training a new crop of guards,” her father explained as Zada crossed the room to the stove.
“I figured,” said Zada. Her father only ever hummed when her mother was away at work. Her mother said the sound gave her a headache.
Once Zada cleared the table, they tucked into the pancakes, carefully eating around the middles, which were undercooked.
“You should see all the congratulations you’ve gotten,” said her father.
Zada made herself smile. “I’ll put in my lenses after breakfast.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean in the feed,” he said, “although I’m sure you have hundreds. I meant those.”
With his fork, he indicated the credenza by the door, which was piled high with a stack of envelopes in a snowy rainbow of pastels.
“Paper mail,” he marveled. “Like something out of an old novel.”
“Flora got some of those, too,” Zada said. “It’s the latest thing.”
Father laughed. “You kids and your trends. Feel free to go ahead and read them. I won’t be offended if you don’t finish your breakfast. The pancakes are a little gooey, aren’t they?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Zada, reaching for the agave. According to her mother, the gen-mod agave perfectly mimicked the flavor of real maple syrup, but of course Zada had no way to know. Maple trees didn’t grow in New Ionia.Only a few species of trees did. It was something to do with the soil and the city being an enclosed system.
Between sticky bites of pancake, Zada picked through the printed congratulations. Jocelin’s, Ursa’s, and Christiana’s missives were nearly identical.It is so exciting to know that you have finally matched with your other half, and on the year of the Centennial, no less! You must be over the moon. Buford is so wonderful and of course you deserve each other. Anyone can see that a lifetime of perfection awaits you, and of course I can’t wait for the wedding. Do let me know what the color scheme is so I can have a new dress made in time. Here’s to you!
Marianne had sent a letter that was perhaps one part flowery felicitations and nine parts cringing apology for her “absolutely untoward behavior” at the wedding dance yesterday. Zada had the strong feeling it had been written by Marianne’s mother, or else written by Marianne with her mother standing over her. Augusta’s card was far more welcome, full of remembrances of their time together at school, without going so far as to name names. Flora hadn’t sent anything, but that was to be expected. She was no doubt busy with her honeymoon.
Then, of course, there were the ads disguised to resemble correspondence from old friends. One was so convincing, Zada half wondered if perhaps she did know an Eleanor Wharton who simply happened to have extremely strong views about which bakery to use for the wedding. “Eleanor” even made references to several specific memories from Zada’s time at Dalrymple, including a fire alarm in her first year that had turned into an impromptu sing-along. It was uncanny.
