“Playing music together in an improvisational sort of bent?” Daphne strode over to a chest of drawers, bending to open the lowest drawer and reveal a fold-out mandolin.
Zada would not have been more surprised if Daphne had produced a jar of literal jam.
“When did you learn to—? Senior year?” Zada guessed. “During your, ah, newfound free time?”
Daphne nodded as she unfolded the mandolin’s neck and body.
“And a bit the summer before. I had this wild notion that I would get good enough to just jump in on one of your pieces while you were playing,” she said. “No warning, just ‘here I am!’”
“I would have loved that,” Zada admitted. “You know I learned how to fold that paper beetle because it made me think of you.”
“Oh?” Daphne grinned. She glanced down at the mandolin as if surprised to still be holding it. She gave it a quick strum, made a face at the discordance, and began to tune it, her motions so deft and familiar that it was clear she had done this before. “Well, my daydream can still happen, if you’ll permit me to follow as you play?”
“Why not?” said Zada. They had an hour to go before their plan was set in motion. The pit of her stomach was a writhing mass of anxiety. She had never been more aware of how much she had to lose. She had to will her voice level. “Please, showme what you’ve got.”
Daphne had learned quite a bit, as it turned out. Zada picked a relatively simple, easy piece—not one she’d written, and certainly not the gooey sentimental thing she was working on now. Once Zada told her the key and gave her a few bars to get the feel, Daphne picked it up with surprising ease.
Zada, who almost never improvised, found herself trying new progressions, new layers and subtleties. Daphne kept up and then some, grinning when Zada incorporated a few seconds of “Keep Calm and Panopticon” into the melody. When Daphne managed to work in “All’s a Go, Proceed,” Zada laughed out loud from the joy of it, and then they were trading off, taking turns following each other to surprising places before trying something else new and daring. Zada forgot they were in Chancellor Fallow’s grand and intimidating manor. She forgot how scared she was, how high the stakes were. What mattered was existing in this moment, every sixteenth note of it.
The sensation was not unlike kissing, and she became just as absorbed in it as when she’d pressed her lips to Daphne’s. When Daphne’s SmartGem chimed with the arrival of their hyper-carriage, they both jumped.
“We’ll have to do that again,” said Zada breathlessly as they stowed their instruments and dashed down the stairs together.
“Without a doubt,” said Daphne, and then they were running across the Fallow estate’s lush gardens, and then they were climbing into the hyper-carriage, and then they were on their way to the masquerade.
Had Zada not spent the past six weeks with Daphne on the Fallow estate, she would have gone slack-jawed in amazement as they strolled through the front garden’s security arch (which scanned them for biometrics, weapons, and contraband), beneath the “dry waterfall” (which scoured their immune systems for transmissible diseases), and past the elaborately costumed guards (who were almost certainly there just for show) into Mozelle Drogace’s glittering mansion. As it was, Zada still had to remind herself to press her lips genteelly together and not gape at the foyer from behind her mask.
Entire trees grew from concealed earthen tiles on the ground, species that could never have withstood the scorching sun outdoors. Dazzling gen-mod parrots winged overhead in hues specially curated to match the evening’s official color scheme.
Something about the whole scene, luxurious as it was, grated at Zada with a sense of wrongness, a chord untuned.
Beside her, Daphne took her elbow. “Something is off here,” Daphne murmured.
“It’s the parrots,” said Zada, suddenly realizing. “They’re not talking or squawking or anything. They’re singing like nightingales. And I don’t think they’re just mimicking.”
Daphne continued to guide her through the immense glass hall. Parrots circled over their heads, making decidedly unparrotlike sounds. “Gen-modders must’ve swapped out the vocal muscles,” she said. She made a face, barely visible behind the mask, but Zada could hear it in her tone. “Ugh. The charm of a parrot is that it’s a beautiful, weird loudmouth.”
“And it’s how they communicate with each other,” Zada added. “Do you suppose whoever put these parrots togetherthought to tweak their minds enough that they can still make sense to other parrots?”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Daphne sighed. “These poor wretches have all the signs of disposable event birds. I’m sure none of them can understand a note of what they’re saying.”
A lifetime surrounded by creatures just like you, unable to speak a word to any of them or comprehend a word in turn. To open your mouth to scream, and only be able to make soothing melodies for the enjoyment of your captors. Zada felt a rush of relief when they left the birds behind and the glass hall opened into an immaculate chamber of cases displaying relics from the past. Around them, ball guests peered through their masks at the riches in glass cases, protected by barely visible force fields.
“Have you been here before?” Zada muttered under her breath.
“Only as a small child,” said Daphne, “but after a certain point, the layouts of these mansions are all about the same.”
Some of the items on display were fascinating—Zada had to tear her eyes away from an antique electric guitar, its body ornamented with stylized flames—but most were unremarkable pieces of paper with dull, hard-to-decipher cursive headlines likeTranscription of the 1789 Joint Resolution of Congress Proposing 12 Amendmentsand so on.
“Money doesn’t buy taste,” whispered Daphne as they crossed the room.
“Having neither, I can’t comment,” said Zada.
Daphne poked her lightly in the ribs. “Come on, none of that,” she said. “You have tons of taste. Miles of taste. Taste out the wazoo, which sounds uncomfortable. You’ve got moresense than to disparage one of the best people I know.”
“Sense out the wazoo,” said Zada half-heartedly.
“It’s a very crowded wazoo,” agreed Daphne. “You might want to see a doctor.” She whisked them through the next door, which brought them into a library. The customary half-empty shelves were artfully filled in with curios and old paintings. From what sounded like several rooms away, Zada detected the faintest strains of Rossini.
