Zada sighed. She knew it was unbecoming, to grow so attached to a potential suitor before it was even possible to know if they were the right one. Marianne’s outburst was deeply immature, not to mention embarrassing to whoever her future match turned out to be. In less than thirty seconds, Marianne had cast a lingering shadow over her own life’s romance—for just a simple entanglement. At the same time, it was difficult to watch someone normally so icy crying like a small child, difficult to watch how hard Marianne kicked and screamed as her mother discreetly pulled her behind an ornate mahogany door, which shut with a final-sounding click.
The quartet was retuning their instruments, which had already been in tune—Zada recognized a stall when she heard one. Daphne had darted across the floor to whisper something to the viola player. It was accompanied by a single slicing motion, as if to say “never mind.” The viola player whispered something back, and Daphne nodded.
Had Daphne been there the whole time?
It occurred to Zada then that Daphne, who had certainly been absent for Buford’s announcement about the Applicator, might still have been under the impression that Zada had told the truth and implicated her for its disappearance. Zada felt a spike of adrenaline and then a spike of annoyance. Why didit still matter to her at all what Daphne thought?
Unthinking, Zada turned to follow Daphne’s progress—and collided face-first with someone’s snowy ascot and bare chin, skulls smacking together with a terrible clunking sound, and—oh, please, no—the momentum taking them both down in the process, along with several of the older guests, and the table of perfumes behind them. There was a shrill smashing of glass, and the smell of fresh linen colliding with pine and old mushrooms filled the air.
Panic clawed at Zada’s chest, heart beating in counterpoint to the chords echoing above her. Why in the world had the quartet chosen the precise moment of disaster to start another piece?
But when she managed to peer up from the ground, none of the musicians were playing. Instead, they stood gaping at Zada as if she’d done something remarkable, instead of simply pulverizing Flora’s entire scent story in a parody of rom-com klutziness. Zada scrambled away from the person she’d knocked to the floor. It was Buford, she realized with a stab of guilt. He had so many responsibilities today. A bruised tailbone was the last thing he needed.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped.
“It’s okay,” Buford assured her, “I don’t feel a thing. Are you all right?”
The music around them swelled impossibly.
The music, which had started the instant they touched, and was still playing now as Buford stood and reached down a hand to help her up.
Zada took his hand. His palm was dry, and his grip felt remarkably sure. The deliberate touch, in front of all thesepeople, was a shock to her system. She half expected someone to scold her. Buford pulled her to her feet. He was quite a bit taller than her, and she ended up with an eyeful of that same gleaming-white ascot.
Except for the song, a gorgeous major-key waltz emanating from the space between them, the room had gone very quiet. Distantly, she was glad that her Heartsong—well, their Heartsong—was so pretty. None of it felt at all real. It was as if the entire world had been drafted into performing a play, and nobody had thought to give Zada her lines.
In the thick of the crowd, she spotted her parents. Her mother’s hands were clasped over her heart. Her father was still holding the triple cello case in one hand, mouth hanging open in a delighted grin. Seeing the two of them brought her several inches closer to earth.
She turned back to look up at Buford. Handsome, charming Buford, with his auburn curls and his warm smile. He was still holding her hand—she’d forgotten that. How had she forgotten? Touching that bare sliver of Daphne’s wrist had zapped her like a burst of lightning, but obviously this touch mattered infinitely more.
Buford ducked to kiss her hand, his lips brushing across her knuckles. The moment was like every romantic comedy that Zada and Flora had ever watched together, and it was happening, right here and right now, to Zada.
There was no need for Buford to say it out loud. Everyone knew there was only one possible outcome, but evidently, he felt the need to embrace the moment.
“Zada Chambers,” said Buford, “will you marry me?”
Chapter FourThe Endless Waltz
The next several hours passed in a series of snapshots, little bursts of crystal-clear memory. The dancing resumed—without Marianne, of course. And to the delight of everyone in attendance, two more Heartsongs played, pairing together Vikram Choudhry with Christiana Tam and Maximilian Upton with Ursa Neale.
Augusta clasped Zada’s hand and stared deep into her eyes, saying only, “You seem distracted. Are you happy?”
“I—yes, of course,” Zada stammered. “It’s just so much excitement, you know.”
“Then I am so glad.”
After a flurry of congratulations, Buford introduced Zada to his parents: a tense-looking blond man who introduced himself as “Bartholomew,” but spoken in a tone which suggested that anything short of “Mr. Arnoth Senior” would land her in boiling-hot water, and a dark-haired woman with high-arched brows who asked pointed questions about Zada’s ancestry. Zada stumbled through her answers, and then Buford was leading her by the hand to her own parents. They hugged her tight, let her go, and then hugged her again, clearly struggling to find the right words to express their joy.
“We knew you’d make a fine match, Z!” her mother said. “We never doubted you for a moment!”
“It’s our privilege to welcome you into our family, Buford,” Zada’s father said formally, but the corners of his mouth kept quirking into a grin. “You went to school with Zada, right? At Dalrymple?”
“I did,” Buford replied. “We took music together, and she was at the top of our class.”
“That’s our girl! Well, now you have the rest of your lives to get to know each other,” Zada’s mother said happily, clapping Buford on the back with a hard thump. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. “And what do you do now?”
“He’s in politics,” Zada said.
“Well, aspiring to be. I’m studying political science and history at Hammersford University, and I’m working as an aide to Legislator Bassey.”
