Very quietly, she hummed the seven notes. That feelingagain, an echo with no origin. It came with a strange sense of urgency, of running feet and hushed voices, a call to adventure—
“Zada?” her mother called from behind the screen.
There could be no greater adventure than marrying Buford. The memory of something else twinged unpleasantly, a chord with one note very wrong. Zada’s happy tears were still flowing, and she used the moisture to wipe away all traces of the hastily inked circles.
“Ready,” Zada called.
Time warped and blurred, dreamlike.
Flora and Augusta escorted Zada to the florist. Something about the dense, heavy smell of roses made Zada feel like there should have been a hand in hers, squeezing hard. Buford’s hand, of course. But Buford was so busy.
On the way home, Flora and Augusta attempted to stop at a noodle stand for what they called “old time’s sake,” but Zada couldn’t stop smiling long enough to bring the chopsticks to her mouth. Flora and Augusta exchanged a look, one far too serious for the situation.
“Z,” said Augusta, “you know how much we care about you, right?”
“Of course,” said Zada easily. They cared as much as it was appropriate for friends to care, which was simply lovely of them. She smiled even wider to show them her gratitude.
“It’s just that Buford, you know, he’s a wonderful man,” Flora began. “But his lifestyle—he’s so serious about becoming an important politician and that’s great, we’re all so proud ofhim—”
“Of course.” Had she already said that? It was hard to keep track. There were such a lot of different words out there, but so few that could pinpoint her current state of bliss. It was so self-evident. “I am unbelievably proud of him. I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Yes,” said Augusta. “But you’re so shy. You don’t like being the center of attention unless you’re playing your triple cello. You hate giving speeches.” She cleared her throat. “The life of a politician’s spouse . . . Z, are you sure, are you absolutely certain this is what you want to do?”
“Of course,” said Zada.
“Because it’s not too late,” said Flora very quietly. “It might seem like it’s too late, but it’s not. We can find a way out of this for you. With a few careful inquiries, we might reach out to people who could reach out to others—”
“The underground,” Zada supplied.
Augusta shushed her and sat up straighter.
Zada couldn’t understand why they were talking about something so dull, but maybe if she contributed something they could return to happier topics.
“Aubrey Audelay,” she said with a shrug.
“What about Aubrey?” Augusta whispered.
“They’re in the underground movement, I think,” Zada volunteered, matching her friends’ peculiar hush. “They play the drums now. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Flora widened her eyes at Augusta. “How do you know this?” Augusta asked in a low voice.
Zada checked her memory. There were a tremendous number of loose ends, pieces of information that refused to flowinto each other, as if something enormous had been sheared away. What a thought. For a moment, Zada’s tears were not from joy. She dug in her mind for an answer, any answer at all.
You look at your hands, like clockwork.Someone had told her that once. Their face, their voice, it was all a blur, but the words themselves had stuck in her head for some reason. Zada glanced at her hands. The nails were perfectly painted a pale pink, in preparation for her wedding. She was getting married!
“Did you tell anyone, about Aubrey?” Flora pressed.
Zada frowned. Who would she have told? Why would she have told them? Politics were far outside the purview of a woman in love. Why were her friends, who cared for her a good and reasonable amount, insisting on forcing her down these dim, narrow conversational corridors?
“No,” she said at last. “Nobody asked. It wasn’t important. Now, then.” She cleared her plate out of the way and leaned forward. “What are we going to do about the centerpieces?”
Flora set down her chopsticks.
“Was I like this?” she muttered to Augusta. Maybe she thought Zada wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t that Zada couldn’t pick up on the more pedestrian details of the world. It all simply felt thousands of miles away, and any thoughts that couldn’t connect with her heart and the overpowering love she had for Buford slid away like raindrops off the back of something smooth and slippery. A roof? A duck? What an amusing thought. She couldn’t wait to share it with Buford.
Augusta winced. “Yours lasted a long time. But not nearly as bad,” Augusta said just as quietly back.
Bad, that was a word people used with love sometimes.She’s down bad, an old turn of phrase that described being laid lowby love. Except really, Zada’s present state of rapture felt more like floating than sinking.She’s up bad.Except bad was wrong too.She’s up good. There was a story she’d read once, about a man who lived long before the dome. He had wished to fly and so attached a fleet of helium balloons to his chair. He had assumed his ascent would be gentle and slow, but instead he had shot skyward, some sixteen thousand feet into the air.
