She knew that if she asked, Daphne would have readily agreed to never mention this again. They could go on as they had been, working together to prevent a marriage that didn’t quicken Zada’s pulse—with no acknowledgment of the mercurial, funny, fantastic person who did.
On the other hand, here was Daphne, dark-eyed and earnest, the very beginnings of cautious hope starting to flicker at one corner of her lips.
“Don’t apologize,” said Zada, with a ferocity that surprised even her, and then she tugged Daphne down and kissed her.
It was technically Zada’s third kiss, but it was the first one in which she was an active participant. With her universe reshaped around the fact that Daphne had wanted to do thisfor years, Zada kissed her and kissed her, savoring the feel of their lips together, stepping closer and savoring the feel of Daphne’s arm around her waist, crushing their bodies together and savoring the feel of that, too.
When they had to break apart to breathe, Daphne rested their foreheads together, as if she couldn’t bear to move even an inch away.
“We can’t do this,” she whispered. “We can’t. You’re engaged.”
“Yes.” The enormity of their plans for tomorrow hit Zada all at once, nearly striking the air from her lungs again. She might have fallen over if not for Daphne’s hands at the small of her back. “But perhaps not for long?”
Daphne grinned. Her eyeliner had smudged badly into a raccoon-like mask, and her hair stood up in all directions. She had never looked better.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
Chapter SeventeenA Song, a Ball, and a Catastrophe
Grandfather is at a business dinner, so we might as well get ready for the masquerade,” Daphne announced from the doorway of Zada’s room. Zada startled at her triple cello, almost dropping the bow. She’d been putting the finishing touches on her new piece, the achingly romantic one, and it was very possible she had lost track of time.
“How long were you waiting there?” Zada asked as she carefully slid both bow and triple cello back into their case.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Daphne, grinning. “Here, they’re dry now.”
That morning, Zada and Daphne had repainted a pair of wooden Venetian masks excavated from the attic, on the off chance that someone might recognize the original colors or patterns as belonging to the Fallow family. It felt a little scandalous covering up the antique hand-etched designs. Daphne, she could tell, felt no such qualms. It had been reassuring to watch Daphne delicately guide her paintbrush over the surface of the mask, biting her lip just a little in concentration as she worked. Vein by vein, she outlined a delicate series of green and golden leaves gracefully overlapping each other.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” asked Zada, whohad decided by necessity to opt for minimalism in her own design.
Daphne paused to clean her brushes. “Well, I had a little more time my final year,” she said without looking up, “once I wasn’t spending so many of my waking hours trying to make a certain triple cellist laugh.”
They had been awkward with each other since the kisses at the concert. There was no getting around it. Stilted, overly formal. But something about the way Daphne spoke just then, the uncertain warmth in her voice brought the memory back in stunning clarity, and Zada had felt dizzy with nerves and joy.
“Please tell me you didn’t stop your japes and jests because of me,” Zada had responded. “It would be like slashing a switchblade through a . . .” And here she’d had to pause, because she had never internalized enough about the great painters to be able to name one, and she certainly couldn’t recall one with Daphne’s eyes so intent on her. “A canvas with a very, very good piece of art on it. Like a painting of a war or a garden or something.”
“A warora garden?” Daphne had laughed, but kindly, the sort of warm, low giggle that let Zada in on the joke. “No, don’t worry. Most of my nonsense at school was just me being me. I’d say at most ten percent of it was me being me around you.”
Me being me around you. The phrase had stuck with Zada ever since, and now, as they climbed the stairs to Daphne’s room, she thoughtI like being me around you. I hope you like it, too.It was a foolish sentiment, almost comical in its simplicity, but that did nothing to stop it, or to stop Zada fromwondering why she’d never written anything with lyrics before.
The masks had turned out remarkably well, and their costumes were easy enough to locate and don.
“I thought that would take longer,” Daphne admitted, “but I can’t think of anything to add.” Zada nodded, studying their reflections together in the mirror. The bootlegger and the pirate. It was nice not having to bother with a corset for a special occasion. It was nice being able to twist at the waist without making a whole production of it.
Zada bounced on the balls of her feet, willing her nerves away. They were so close to their goal. She wanted to dedicate herself to action, to channel the adrenaline spiking through her veins into some pursuit that could bring them Mozelle’s data and prove that Zada had a different soulmate altogether. She knew who she hoped it was, of course, but until they could peek in those files, she had no proof, and proof was everything. Instead, her frantic thoughts spun like a merry-go-round.
“Should we go over the plan again?” said Zada.
“Simple,” said Daphne. “We sneak in. You find Mozelle. I create a distraction, and you use it to slip in and get close enough that you can copy the Gem. Rendezvous in the library, go through our new copy of said Gem, and quickly and efficiently learn Buford’s not your soulmate. Then we get the hell out of there.”
“Right,” Zada said. “Simple. When’s the hyper-carriage coming?”
“Not for another hour,” said Daphne.
“What shall we do in the meantime?” Zada asked. She meant it as an honest question with no trace of suggestion, but her eyes caught Daphne’s in the mirror as she said it, andDaphne shivered ever so slightly.
“How about we try jamming together?” said Daphne, about half an octave higher than usual.
“Jamming,” Zada repeated blankly.
