“And you know, I’ve never seen anyone cry like that. Flora’s tears were of profound relief, that she would get her love story after all. And what a love story it was.” Zada’s voice sounded steadier, firmer. Maybe this speech wouldn’t be a disaster after all.
And it was at that moment that Daphne met Zada’s gaze.
“Breathe,” Daphne had said once to her. “Breathe, and look at me. There, don’t you feel better already?” She had winked then, the shocking intimacy of it like a finger running gently down the nape of Zada’s neck.
“What, is your face meant to calm me down?” Zadamuttered.
“Of course! See, my soothing eyes? My reassuring mouth?” Daphne said breezily.
“Your reliable nostrils,” Zada managed between shaky breaths, because she thought there was a chance Daphne would laugh. It worked, although that did nothing good for Zada’s thundering heartbeat.
They’d just finished hacking into the academy’s grading system and changing the scores for a test that Augusta had flunked, because she’d been too sick to study and the teacher hadn’t let her retake it. Or, rather, Daphne had stolen their teacher’s SmartGem right out of his class ring and served as the distraction while Zada did the hacking. By then, the administration had known that someone in the student body could access files she shouldn’t be able to, and Zada had been almost bested by a new layer of security. After a narrow success, they had run from one blind spot in the security system to the next one, ending at the grimy stairwell.
“Oh, my nostrils most of all, Zades,” Daphne replied. “Every stalwart nose hair and booger precisely where they belong.” She wiggled her elegant aquiline nose, and Zada was struck with the sudden, irrational desire to make the exact same joke again in the hopes that it would trigger an identical response, the same laugh and wiggle in instant replay.
Zada had known then that it was a problem, their friendship. Classes were getting harder in their second to last year, and as a scholarship student, she couldn’t afford the temptation to mischief, the crackling lightning-bright distraction that was Daphne Fallow. Zada hadn’t ended their friendship that day. But she’d known then that it would need to happen,and happen soon.
But that was all in the past. She couldn’t and wouldn’t be distracted by Daphne, who was watching the proceedings with the careless air of the truly wealthy. In the heady days of their friendship, Zada had always been able to forget that Daphne was Chancellor Fallow’s granddaughter. With both stares locked on her, it was harder to do now. She pushed onward.
“Flora had no reason to lose sleep over her match, of course,” Zada made herself say, but she couldn’t look away from Daphne. “She perfectly embodies every tenet of the Founders Creed, from her faith in New Ionia to her incredible patience. As the Creed says—”
Slowly, Daphne raised her chin. It was an old gesture from another era—a challenge, an invitation to adventure. Daphne had always hated prepared remarks. “Show me there’s a single original thought in your head first and then maybe I’ll bother listening,” she liked to mutter during assemblies.
Zada had never been able to resist the tilt of Daphne’s chin. She’d never been able to outwit her own racing heartbeat, the way her every nerve fizzled with the need to meet Daphne’s dares head-on. It was why she’d cut off their friendship in the first place. Stomach flutters and heart-in-throat excitement should only happen with your destined match, everyone knew that.
Zada felt herself veer off-script.
“In fact, nobody has more patience than Flora,” Zada found herself saying. “I remember back when we were in our second year, a group of us went wandering through the antique sculpture garden one evening. As we were admiring the statues, someone came up with the bright idea of painting our faces,holding perfectly still, and trying to pass ourselves off as a recently added installation.”
The someone was Daphne, of course.
“It was right after exam week, so we were game for anything. We borrowed supplies from the drama department and spent all night perfecting our looks and practicing our poses. Only, staying completely still without even blinking was much harder than we’d imagined. And of course, one of us would always start laughing at the sight of our painted faces and then we’d all dissolve into giggles.
“In the end, only Flora managed it. I’ll never forget the next morning, as the sun crested the city and dew coated the lawn, how we all crouched behind a garden wall, paint streaking our faces, and watched Flora stand there still as a statue, with her head tilted to one side. And when the first visitors came filtering in, they all walked around her, wondering at this new work of art—until she sneezed.”
A tepid breath of amusement rolled through the room. Zada felt her shoulders relax ever so slightly.
“I’ll never forget,” Zada added, “how we laughed until our ribs hurt, until we were in real pain.” She smiled, still picturing the scene in her mind’s eye. “And how Carine said—”
Shit.
Zada froze. Before her, the guests sat in stunned silence, as if in suspended animation. For one stupid second, she was seized by the urge to somehow stuff the words back into her mouth.
Nobody was to mention Carine Cartwright. Not for any reason. Heartbeat pounding in her ears, Zada muttered, “I mean, many happy returns to the new couple. May, um, may they have all the joy together that they deserve, which is farmore than I can express here today.”
Zada stepped away from the podium, face hot with shame and horror at her mistake, and rushed across the stage to her triple cello. Only when she took her seat, her bow blessedly in hand again, did she realize that she’d failed to introduce the piece she was playing.
Well, it was too late now. Resting the neck of the triple cello against her now very sweaty shoulder, Zada readjusted her (also very sweaty) grip on her bow and began, at last, to play. Gradually, just as she’d practiced, she began to filter in new layers of sound—a delicate bit of lightly plucked strings, a swooping countermelody. She let the tension between the melody and the countermelody build until it resolved into sweetness and major notes.
The wedding guests were still silent, but there was a different quality to it now. It might have been her imagination, but she felt as if they were nearly starting to breathe to the rhythm of the song. That feeling of rightness, of being exactly where she should be, doing exactly what she should be doing, that was the closest she’d ever come to what she imagined was the all-encompassing bliss of falling in love. Zada clung to it, a brief kaleidoscopic flash of her hopes and dreams realized.
She ducked her head, preparing for the big finish, the one last intricate layer to her song for Flora—and a dull thud echoed through the room.
Zada’s bow slipped, screeching painfully against the strings. She looked up from her triple cello to find a small cluster of people already gathering around the limp form of Flora’s grandmother. Concerned murmurs arose from the rows of seats. Buford strode briskly back to the podium.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he told the crowd. “The grandmother of the bride has fainted from all the excitement. But we have a doctor tending to her, and he informs us she’ll be perfectly fine.” Buford smiled sheepishly. “It seems like we’re all doing our part to make this day memorable.”
He stepped away from the podium, and with his face turned away from the crowd, Zada caught a flicker of tension.
