“We won’t be caught. I’ve been to plenty of these, and I’ll look out for you. Don’t worry.” Daphne drew another swoop of black across her eyelid with a perfectly steady hand.
Zada had never known Daphne to devote any time or energy to cosmetics. They’d studied makeup at Dalrymple, of course. Their third-year health class had included two weeks during which the boys and girls were separated from each other, and the girls had received extensive training in all forms of self-beautification.
The three nonbinary students in their year had been put into independent study. Occasionally, a student would joke about getting themselves registered as nonbinary to avoid the cosmetics class and whatever the boys were doing. But achieving the official designation required endless paperwork that could only be completed at City Hall—not to mention the mandatory meeting with a five-person panel of school administrators who were tasked with evaluating each application and granting exemptions to the more gendered tasks.
One first-year had been nervous to the point of nausea about their evaluation, and now all of the nonbinary students were given a cup of calming ginger tea beforehand. Venetia Collingwood had tried to object to the measure, arguing it was special treatment, to which Daphne had declared, “Someone had better ask if there’s extra tea, because hearing Venetia’s voice is turning my stomach.”
The teacher had assigned Daphne an extra essay for her rudeness, but Aubrey Audelay had turned to give Daphne one of their rare sunny smiles. Later that evening, Zada had offered to help Daphne strike a tone for the essay that was just sarcastic enough to sting, but not quite enough to be detectable by anyone with the power to issue a second punishment.
That had been the beginning, when Daphne had gone from a pleasant acquaintance to someone who could pull a goodmood out of Zada like a magician retrieving a dove from a hat. And that had certainly come in handy during the beautification unit.
As if reading her mind, Daphne glanced up from her eyeliner to say, “Do you remember third-year health?”
“‘Cosmetics aren’t about attraction,’” Zada parroted, “‘they’re about—’”
“‘Putting your best foot forward, so your soulmate knows they have someone they can be proud of,’” Daphne and Zada finished together.
“Ugh,” Daphne said with feeling.
Zada shuddered. “The only class where I’ve ever lost points because of my brows.”
In her mind, she could still hear Mrs. Willis snapping “Pleasegive your future spouse something soft and sweet to look at every day, don’t force them to put up withthat” in a tone that made the frantic, discordant strings ofRite of Springsound like the softest lullaby.
“The only class? Can’t say the same for me,” Daphne replied breezily. “My recitation teacher wanted to fail me for delivering the Founders speech with one eyebrow cocked.”
“I remember that. How did you ever pass?”
Daphne grimaced. “Grandfather reminded the school of his most recent donations, and suddenly that fifty-five percent looked a lot more like an eighty-five.”
“Ah. Convenient.”
Daphne gently bumped their shoulders together. “I know it wasn’t fair. My grandfather just couldn’t stand for a Fallow to receive a failing grade. Never mind that perhaps I deserved it.”
“Or perhaps your teacher shouldn’t have graded you on thestate of your eyebrows.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have been graded on our appearances at all.”
“Yes, I suppose—” Zada turned toward Daphne, any reply evaporating when saw her. Daphne’s dark brown eyes seemed even darker than usual, and the eyeliner gave her an unfamiliar, dangerous edge. There was nothing soft or sweet about her appearance, but Zada could barely look away.
One of Daphne’s hands drifted toward her eyes. “What? Is it crooked?”
“Not to worry,” said Zada. “It’s perfect.”
They took a hyper-carriage several miles away from the fashionable part of the city. When they reached a dimly lit street lined with abandoned factories, Daphne jumped out of the cab and offered Zada a hand down.
“It’s here?” said Zada, surveying the row of neglected buildings.
Daphne shook her head. “We’re walking the rest of the way,” she said. “It’s a nice night.”
It wasn’t, not really. Clouds blotted out the darkening sky above the biodome and the air was stifling. But with the sun down, at least there was no need for shade. Zada suspected something else was up.
Sure enough, once the hyper-carriage was out of earshot, Daphne added, “There’s a rumor that the carriages log all of your comings and goings, and the city government has access to the data.”
Despite their reputation for discretion, it wasn’t out of therealm of possibility that hyper-carriages might record travel data. You hailed a hyper-carriage via your SmartGem or, if you were on the street, by flagging one down and allowing its sensors to scan your face and charge the credit account linked to your facial ID. The thought made her uneasy. Of course, as any decent law-abiding citizen would say, there was no reason to fear such measures if you were not doing anything wrong.
But she and Daphne were doing something wrong. If anyone else found out where they were headed, they risked censure and a fine. And that was the best-case scenario. If anyone guessed their true motives in attending, if anyone guessed that they were digging into the accuracy of Heartsong—
“Everything okay?” said Daphne. “You’re being quieter than usual.”
