At some point, it had been a healthy creek with a charming little footbridge built over it. The water had long ago been used up. Nowadays, the bridge was in poor repair, the stonework crumbling and worn away by time. It also hosted an ever-changing display of motion graffiti. Every week, unflattering caricatures of city officials and unsettling sentiments sprang up on its underside like a writhing, Technicolor fungus. On any given day, you might findROTTEN TO THE COREorADMIN ERSKINE CAN EAT SHIT!or the full preamble to the New Ionian charter sprayed across the span of the bridge.
Daphne called it “the Gallery.” She’d swung by every weekend she could and even some when she couldn’t. More than once, Zada had covered for Daphne while she bypassed the dorm controls and disappeared into the early dawn, hopping onto the back of any hyper-carriage that might take her in the right direction.
Zada herself had been to the Gallery with Daphne a handfulof times. Zada had no eye for visual art, but standing together beneath the bridge, Zada had studied her friend’s face, just as Daphne studied this piece of urban decay, and that was its own experience. Daphne had been different here—quieter, less edgy, less likely to deflect an honest question with a barb or a joke.
Maybe the only way to navigate out of the storm of Zada’s longing for the past was to steer into the middle of it, to remind herself that Daphne’s Gallery was nothing but a sad little bridge leading from nowhere to nowhere, covered in ugly scribbles. She had a bright future ahead of her, and she wouldn’t be facing it alone. She would have Buford. She was lucky to have found her soulmate so soon. She was lucky to be a citizen of New Ionia. She was lucky for so many reasons, and she should be happy.
Zada told herself this all the way across the warehouse district until she reached the bridge. It looked the same as always: like a neglected stretch of road that had gone moldy. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if riding this impulse to face the past was more important than keeping her boots clean, when she heard a voice behind her.
“Think you might be lost, madam,” said Daphne. “The ‘giggle and twirl your hair while you contemplate your perfectly romantic life with your perfectly romantic spouse’ district is three streets over, I’m afraid.”
Zada turned. Daphne was wearing a loose white blouse tucked into very fitted trousers, which were tucked into soft-looking black boots. The cooling fibers were so fine on the blouse, it really did look like linen. A slight shimmer at the crown of her hair was the only hint of a sunshade. Well, thatand the fact that she wasn’t squinting in the high noon glare. Her gaze was cool and direct.
Zada had skipped her coffee that morning, but all of a sudden, her blood seemed to be half espresso.
“Oh dear,” Zada said, rocking back on her heels. “You’re right, I’ve gone too far. I made it all the way to ‘act like an utter ass’ alley.”
Daphne snorted, then caught herself. “A common mistake.” She bowed and gestured for Zada to pass her on the path. “I’ll leave you to your prewedded bliss, then. I’ll just—”
“Why did you try to ruin Flora’s wedding?”
Daphne tilted her head. “A respectable young lady such as yourself would never understand.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” Zada shot back. “Just tell me. Why would you steal the Applicator? Even if we’re not friends anymore, I know that you still care about Flora. I can’t believe you would do something like that just to be cruel.”
“Can’t you?” Daphne countered, eyes flashing. “It’s been over a year. People change.”
Had Daphne really changed? She was certainly more weary, more sharp-edged and sharp-tongued than before. But of course, she had every reason to be, given how Zada had walked away from her.
Zada thought back to her Dalrymple days, to Daphne buying her jewelry in town. Daphne protecting the first-years from Venetia’s caustic comments and Hubert’s bullying. Daphne climbing the tree outside their dorm so that she could syringe-feed formula to a nest of abandoned baby sparrows. The sparrows had been malformed, too weak to hold up their little sleek heads, the product of a flock of gen-mod birds broughtin for some fancy celebration.
When the admin found out about the nest, they ordered the hatchlings removed. Daphne had gone a full day without saying a word to anyone after that.
“Yes, people change,” Zada said quietly. “But not that much.”
Daphne swallowed, the elegant line of her throat working.
“It’s a long story,” she said finally.
“I’ve got time,” said Zada.
“I highly doubt that.” Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
“I do,” Zada said. And before she could think better of it, she added, “And I need someone to accompany me. If you came along, you could explain yourself, and I’d have some entertainment while I go around comparing five identical shades of buttercream.”
Daphne gasped. “Do you mean to imply you still can’t tell the difference between off-white and alabaster? What the shitting hell was our fancy-ass education even for?”
“Says the lady who still can’t tell the key of C from G,” Zada put in.
“Music,” said Daphne, shaking her head. “All this talk of keys and yet nothing ever gets unlocked.”
“So you’ll come with me?” Zada asked.
“I didn’t say that.” Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “First you want to be friends, then you don’t, now you do again. It’s dizzying, Zada.”
“Friendship has nothing to do with it. Consider this a transaction, plain and simple. You have information, and I have something you want, too.”
“Oh?” said Daphne. “What’s in it for me?”
