“I don’t know,” said Zada. “It looks like something a pirate might wear.”
“Then be a pirate!” Daphne shot her a wicked grin. “A big floppy pirate hat would be the perfect place to hide your SmartGem cloner, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m not carrying the cloner around on my head.”
“Just imagine, Zada. All you’d need is a hat, some hoop earrings, a pair of dashing pantaloons, and a touch of makeup, and we’re golden. Oh, and a pair of smart boots wouldn’t hurt.”
“And where are we meant to get the rest of these things?” Still, Zada came over and shrugged on the coat. It fit comfortably enough.
“Come look in the mirror,” said Daphne. “You must see this. The color brings out your eyes.”
“If muddy dishwater even deserves to bebrought out,” Zada muttered, maneuvering around a stack of old portraits to the looking glass.
“Strongly disagree. Your eyes are the color of a stormy sea, the kind of sea that sailors used to warn each other about. Your eyes are like an ocean about to wreck some shit.”
Zada willed away the blush rising on her cheeks. All of Buford’s quoted poetry paled in comparison to Daphne saying her eyes were shit-wrecking.
“They’re nothing like yours,” said Zada, trying to keep her voice light. “That deep brown. It’s so dramatic. Compared to that—”
“Of course your eyes are nothing like mine. They’re in your face,” said Daphne. “And frankly, I don’t see why we can’t both be dazzling. It’s not a contest.”
Daphne held out a hand as Zada climbed over the last of the boxes, her gaze on the floor to make sure she didn’t step on a piece of inherited china and crush a delicate saucer like a crunchy leaf. Zada took her hand, and Daphne hummed a snatch of waltz.
“Remember, don’t watch your feet,” Daphne said, echoing Zada’s advice from so many years ago. A smile pulled at her lips.
“Ha,” said Zada. Then she regarded her reflection. The coat, which she had been worried would look silly, rested on her frame with a casual elegance. “I do look rather dashing,” she admitted.
“You do at that,” said Daphne, hooking her chin on Zada’s shoulder, the way she did so often at school.
Daphne’s dark hair, Zada’s light hair. Daphne’s tall frame, Zada’s shorter stature. Zada remembered the clerk at the florist shop, how he assumed Daphne and Zada were together. She wished it didn’t feel so good, to know that a stranger could look at the two of them and see a world in which Daphne might return these feelings Zada had bubbling up from within.
“You really do need a hat,” Daphne said. “You could bundle all your hair up in it. I thought I saw—” Daphne retraced her steps to a haphazard stack of hatboxes. “It’s in here somewhere.” She began to rummage, shucking lid from box with wild abandon.
“Do you truly expect me to believe that one of your esteemed ancestors owned a pirate hat?”
“A tricorne,” said Daphne, without looking up from her search. “They were all the rage maybe twenty years ago. With the right accessories, it’ll look positively piratical—ha!” She reemerged, holding the hat aloft. “There you are! Try this on.”
The tricorne was black, trimmed with gold braid. Daphne gently set the hat on Zada’s head. Zada reached up to straighten it. Their fingers brushed for the briefest moment, but neither of them stepped away. Zada knew that she should, knew that the moment had already gone on too long, but Daphne wasn’t moving either.
“There,” said Daphne. “You’re the perfect scoundrel.” A corner of Daphne’s mouth quirked into a smile. Zada tracked the movement, tracked the delicate shape Daphne’s lips made. They were standing close enough that Zada saw the exact moment Daphne noticed where her gaze had gone, and this was a disaster, this was terrible, she needed to move away before she really did something stupid—
“Hey,” said Daphne, with almost shocking gentleness, one careful hand on Zada’s elbow, and improbably Daphne was leaning closer. Zada found herself following suit. Their faces were only inches apart. She wanted to kiss Daphne more than she wanted air, wanted to bury her hands in Daphne’s short hair—and then she remembered. Flora’s bracelet glittering in the dark of the bathroom drawer. Flora’s recent overnight stay here. Flora, the true object of Daphne’s affections.
Zada jerked away, shoving Daphne back in the process. Daphne staggered a half step, eyes wide, before she found her footing again.
What reason could there possibly be for Daphne’s behavior? Nothing was coming to mind. Was Daphne toying with her,or trying to exact her revenge for their falling-out? No, that wasn’t like her. Daphne had always been such a loyal friend. It stung to think that she might be less loyal as a lover.
“Sorry,” said Daphne into the ringing silence. “That was—I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Zada heard herself say thinly. “Just—don’t do it again. I’m not—”Her. Flora. The one you’re in love with.She couldn’t make herself finish the sentence.
Daphne nodded. She did look properly regretful, at least. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I would never—”
“I know,” said Zada. It came out sharper than she’d intended. “Can we stop talking about this? I’d rather pretend it didn’t happen.”
Her harsh words hung in the air like the reek of mothballs.
Daphne scrubbed a hand over her face. “I think the stress is getting to us.”
