“It’s horses, real ones,” said Carine. “The troupe’s back.”
Zada swallowed. “Soldiers?”
Carine shook her head. “An acting troupe. They come around a few times a year. They do mostly plays about the current moment. We have a standing bargain with them.”
“Huh,” said Zada. “Should we wait around and welcome them?”
“I’m due to look at the water recycler again,” said Carine. “But I can say hi.”
Zada and Carine waited in the shade of the coop fence for the travelers. Zada still wasn’t used to feeling the sun at its normal strength, not warped and magnified as it had been in New Ionia. Carine had been right that the climate in the biodome had gotten worse, while the climate outside had slowly recovered. Zada had yet to truly experience a cold snap. She was almost looking forward to it.
As soon as the actors came into view, Zada and Carine started to wave. There were maybe twenty of them. Their leader was a small, white-haired old woman who rode her horse with incredible ease. And to her right, walking a tall brown horse was a woman who reminded Zada almost eerily of Daphne. It wasn’t just the hair or the eyes or the nose, it was the very dimensions of her mischievous smile.
Zada looked at Carine, but Carine didn’t react. Of course, Carine hadn’t spent the last three months reveling in the ability to stare at Daphne Fallow whenever she wanted.
“Welcome to Beluga Town,” Carine was saying. “You’re the Ameliorators, right? You’re welcome to water your animals, and after that we can see about watering yourselves.”
“Most kind of you,” said the old woman. “The usual deal? Three nights of theater for three nights of hospitality?”
“Of course,” said Carine, leading the old woman away.
Zada snuck a look at the dark-haired woman. She was older than she’d first looked, with plenty of white strands mixed into the black, and pronounced laugh lines at her eyes, and worry lines at her forehead. She was the right age, but many people who left New Ionia chose different names, so there was no guarantee she would answer to Iphigenia, if that had ever been her. Zada was still somewhat shaky on the etiquette surrounding a renaming, and she didn’t want to get it wrong.
“Would you like to see the library?” said Zada instead. “The kids are just finishing story time, I’m sure they’d love to meet some real-life actors.”
A flicker passed over the dark-haired woman’s face, and then she brightened and said, “Oh yes. We’d love to meet them, too!”
Zada kept up a cautious flow of conversation on the way to the library. The actors had most recently come from Canada. Their journey on this leg had been mostly pleasant, except for an encounter with some bandits near Toronto, but Terry Chen, the troupe’s stage manager, had negotiated the Ameliorators’ escape thanks to the clever use of prop guns.
“And what do you do?” asked the dark-haired woman.
“I play the triple cello,” Zada told her.
The woman clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Listen, if you ever want a change of scenery, we would kill for another musician.” She hesitated. “Not kill, of course. Maim? No, that feels too severe. We would verbally devastate someone for a triple cellist, how’s that?”
“Pretty good,” said Zada, “but I’m afraid I must decline. I like the people I’m with too much.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said the woman.
They had reached the library. Zada shielded her eyes from the solar panels and opened the door. Inside, Daphne was addressing the small group of children who lived in Beluga.
“And that’s why you should never be afraid to ask questions,” she said. “Yes, Juan?”
Juan, who was maybe eight, lowered his hand. “What gives you the right to tell us what to do?”
Daphne laughed, and after a second, Juan joined her.
“Well played, kiddo,” said Daphne. “Well played.” She looked up, and her eyes met Zada’s.
“We left the chicken coop open, didn’t we?”
“Wide open,” Zada confirmed. “Listen, Daphne—” It occurred to her then that maybe this was a bad idea. The woman probably wasn’t Daphne’s mom, or maybe she was but Daphne didn’t want to see her again. Why had Zada simply—
Behind Zada, the dark-haired woman made a sound, not quite a word but not quite a gasp. Daphne caught sight of her, and then the two were running at each other, and the woman was sweeping Daphne into her arms, and Daphne was clutching back hard, and they were both crying.
Zada looked away, trying to give them some privacy. Another member of the troupe, who might have been Terry Chen, smiled at her.
“I’ve got a feeling you should both come to the show tonight,” they said.
