“Yes,” Zada said, grateful for the cover. “There’s just so much left to do. And I feel as if every answer we find only leads to even more questions. I’m like a can of rose cola that’s been shaken until it’s about to burst.”
“We need some release,” Daphne agreed.
The word sparked a memory, of frowning down at one of the books the sisters had been hoarding:with only the occasional underground grotto rock concert for release . . .
“Do you think,” said Zada slowly, “that if we went to one of those—to a grotto rock show—we could get some sense of how the dissenters feel? Beyond just the nuns, I mean. If we’re looking at this from all angles, it might be helpful to gather whatever on-the-ground intel we can.”
“Plus, we could blow off some steam,” said Daphne.“Underground concerts are good for that.”
It shouldn’t have been surprising. The only thing Daphne loved more than listening to grotto rock was breaking rules, but Zada still had to blink a few times.
“You’ve been?” Zada asked, as casually as she could.
“A few times,” said Daphne with a shrug. “I came for the rock, not the rhetoric. But if we did go, we could definitely ask around. There’s a big show the night before the ball, actually.”
Now that the idea was out there, Zada could feel the doubts rushing in. “I have nothing to wear.”
“There’s no uniform,” Daphne said. “It’s a concert, Zades.”
“It’s too risky.”
“But it might be worth it.” Daphne snagged a pair of floppy black boots from under an out-of-commission pipe organ. “Here, try these on. Could work with your pirate look.”
Zada awkwardly balanced on one foot and then the other, determinedly ignoring Daphne’s offer of a supportive hand as she squeezed into the boots. They were far too small. Her toes pinched horribly.
“They don’t fit,” she said, yanking one boot off. It hit the floor with a satisfying thump. She reached for the other boot, almost tipping over. Daphne held out a hand again, and after a moment’s hesitation, Zada reluctantly took it. “And anyway, I wouldn’t belong at a grotto rock show.”
“Zada,” said Daphne. “Those are all excuses. Do youwantto go? If you don’t want to, then we don’t have to.” She gave Zada’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s your call.”
Did Zada want to go? Did she want to be the kind of girl who attended illegal concerts with people like Daphne? Someone dangerous and fascinating, with secrets nobody inher social studies class could ever have even dreamed of?
Of course she wanted that. Who wouldn’t? Well, plenty of people. Plenty of people spent their lives striving to be better partners, better workers, better citizens. It was shameful to want something else, something more.
But surely if there were rumors on the ground about the Core’s possible malfunctioning, their best hope of hearing them would be among those already most likely to rebel.
And, her mind added treacherously, it was the music Daphne loved. Zada thought back to the transported look on Daphne’s face years ago when she’d stare enthralled at the motion graffiti beneath the bridge. She wanted to see that look on Daphne’s face again, even if she didn’t deserve to. Even if that look would never be directed at her. Wanting felt dangerous, but perhaps just for today, it would be all right if she took that risk.
Daphne had bent to survey another pair of boots. “What about these?”
Zada reached for Daphne’s outstretched hand. Balancing on one foot and then the other, she pulled on the boots.
“I want to go,” Zada said at last with more courage than she felt. “I’ve been hearing you wax poetic about these songs for how many years? I might as well see what all the fuss is about.”
“Fuss is one word for it,” said Daphne. “How are the boots?”
They fit perfectly. Zada almost laughed.
By day, they plotted their upcoming evening at the masquerade. Getting in was a simple matter of hacking the guest list,but the range on Zada’s clone-scanner was such that copying Mozelle’s data would require Zada to get and stay quite close to Mozelle for at least five minutes. Daphne had promised to create a distraction, and with any luck, it would allow Zada to slip in unnoticed.
By night, Zada practiced her triple cello. At first, she felt terribly self-conscious. What if Daphne happened to go out into the hallway and overhear her? But Daphne had never shown the slightest interest in any music that wasn’t written to be played at top volume, she reassured herself. It was perfectly safe.
Zada was still working on the same piece, the one about Daphne. The newest part was turning out sweet and hesitant and so openly romantic that she knew she could never allow Daphne to hear it. Zada woke up every morning with secret songs playing in the back of her mind.
“There’s no need to worry,” said Daphne. She and Zada checked their reflections side-by-side in the ornate full-length mirror in the corner of Daphne’s room. “It’s just a concert.”
The glass was long but not wide, and it brought them close enough that their shoulders were brushing. Zada was determined not to say anything about it if Daphne didn’t, and Daphne barely seemed to notice, intent on lining her eyes with a whole lot of black.
“What if we get caught?” Zada had to ask.
