You Pierce My Soul

Chapter One In Which Zada Chambers Vainly Hopes That Chaos Does Not Ensue

Zada climbed the filigreed steps to the grandest stage in the grandest room of City Hall, struggling to school her thoughts into something befitting the joyous occasion of her friend’s marriage, and away from a swelling, choking fear that she was about to ruin the most important day of Flora’s life.

So far, the wedding was a success, even by the lofty standards of New Ionian society.

The day had passed like a wonderful dream, the kind that made you want to stay in bed just a few minutes longer.

Flora’s family had hired an entire orchestra to play the processional, which must have cost a fortune.

The early afternoon champagne alone was worth more than Zada’s own parents would earn in a year.

And then there was the crowning glory: the flock of doves genetically engineered to glow and wink like fireflies, awaiting their release at the end of the final ceremony.

At the podium, the best man was finishing Zada’s introduction. Buford Arnoth, with his auburn curls and affable face, seemed totally at ease being the center of attention. Zada had known him for years at school and still she marveled at how calm and level his voice remained as he spoke.

“. . . And so, to say a few words and perform a composition specially written for this occasion, allow me to introduce to you one of the bride’s oldest friends, Zada Chambers.”

A ripple of polite applause followed, doing little to drown out Zada’s heavy footsteps.

She’d borrowed a pair of glittering flats from Flora since none of her own were nice enough, but they were half an inch too long.

The tap tap tap of the unfamiliar sole itched at the back of her mind, her steps off-rhythm and off-key.

The thought of performing, even in front of this many people, wasn’t the problem.

Once Zada took her seat at her waiting triple cello, bow in hand, she’d know every note, every motion, every shade and subtlety she needed to make the piece sing.

Playing her triple cello at City Hall, with its high vaulted ceilings and gorgeous marble facades, was nearly everything she’d ever wanted.

She could already tell the acoustics would be otherworldly perfection.

What really made her hands shake and her stomach lurch was the minute or so of planned remarks that came first.

“It’s just a quick speech,” Buford had reassured her months ago. “Open with a joke, highlight Flora’s delight at discovering she’d been matched with Aiden, and end with your wishes for the happy couple.”

He had paused then, noticing Zada’s increasingly nauseous expression.

“Oh, and whatever you do, don’t picture the crowd naked.

It doesn’t help at all. Just be sincere.

And specific. And succinct. And charming.

” That was easy for Buford to say. Buford had been born into a prominent political family, with all the natural and cultivated gifts to ensure him a promising career.

But Zada could no sooner be sincere, specific, succinct, and charming in front of a crowd of spectators than she could levitate.

Distantly, she noted that she’d crossed the stage, discordant shoes and all, and taken her place at the podium.

Crystal skylights glittered from the high ceilings above her, refracting the sun’s searing summer rays into feathery wisps of light that flitted across the faces of the hundreds of guests.

Only a fraction of the one million New Ionians were in attendance, but it felt as if the entire city had turned out.

From the stately ninety-year-old widow Georgina Trafford to Lieutenant General Joanna Dobson in her immaculate dress uniform, the hall was packed with people who could destroy Zada’s social standing with a single word.

Zada scanned her audience, searching for a friendly face.

Flora stood onstage just a few feet away, but her attention was split between tearfully beaming at Aiden and posing for the many photographers throughout the hall, carefully stationed so that the memento video could be explored later in three dimensions.

Most of Zada’s fellow debutantes sat together toward the middle of the room, carefully spaced apart so as not to brush against each other by accident.

As much as they were all waiting breathlessly for their own Heartsong, setting one off in the middle of a wedding ceremony would be the height of impropriety.

She spotted Vikram sitting beside Ursa, who was trying to get Aubrey’s attention.

And then there was Augusta, who was seated discreetly off to the side, almost hidden by the curling vines and lush greenery adorning the wall.

She gave Zada a look as close to an encouraging smile as was appropriate, given the recent passing of her husband.

Augusta had been the first of Zada’s friends to get married, and following her husband’s tragic aneurysm, she was now the first to be widowed as well.

Zada’s parents were perched on a pew toward the back. They nearly vibrated with excitement at being there, shifting forward in their seats as if to better hear Zada’s speech. Their eagerness only made things worse.

Zada took a deep breath as she gathered her courage and noticed with a jolt that Chancellor Fallow was sitting in the front row, his posture straight as a flute, glaring up at Zada from beneath his bushy white eyebrows.

She tried not to stare back at him. As the head of the council of legislators, the entire city was his charge, and it was shocking to see him here, attending a wedding instead of giving an address on a live feed or doing whatever a chancellor typically did.

Especially in the year of the Centennial, more important functions should be occupying the chancellor’s time.

He was a direct descendant of the Founders, after all.

The imprints of the Founders’ minds made up the dataset from which the Core operated.

Without the Core, there would be no New Ionia at all.

If New Ionia was an antique watch, with each gear and spring designed to tick perfectly forward, the Core was the watchmaker and the hand that wound the mechanism.

The mystery only resolved itself when Zada remembered that Flora and Aiden had ended up needing Counseling before their marriage. Chancellor Fallow was the foremost expert in Counseling, and he must’ve had a hand in ensuring Flora and Aiden’s happy union.

Zada had never even been in the same room as the chancellor before, of course. But for some reason, he seemed to be regarding her as though she were a strain of flesh-eating bacteria that had somehow crawled into his daily rejuvenation serum.

No, that was impossible. He didn’t know her. This was all in her head. Zada’s stomach lurched again as she wished that her arrival at City Hall that morning hadn’t coincided with the changing of the guards.

The procedure made her uneasy in the best of circumstances.

It wasn’t the reminder of Zada’s own origins.

True, her father was the child of a convicted smuggler, and her mother had worked her way up to Captain of the Guards from being a sentry at those very same gates.

And even though her parents had never pushed her to be more than she was, she could never quite escape the chorus in the back of her mind whispering, Try harder.

Be better. Your family has sacrificed everything for you, so prove that you’re worth it.

But what unsettled her about the sentries was rather the reminder of what they did.

Zada had watched them that morning as they marched in neat formations, their shiny dematerializers holstered safely by their sides.

And even though they were all that stood between New Ionia and the rest of the hungry, jealous world, a shiver of fear had gone straight through her, from the top of her elaborate brownish-blond bun to the soles of her borrowed shoes.

Every time she tapped into the news feed and read about another Extrication, or a new bill passed to fund the strengthening of the force fields that encircled the city, Zada felt a thread of inexplicable tension tighten almost imperceptibly inside of her.

No law-abiding citizen had anything to fear from them, and yet—

It was the wrong thing to feel, but Zada had never been good at feeling the right thing.

“Um,” Zada began. Even she could tell this wasn’t a strong start.

“Uh.” Not better. Her eyes darted over to her still-waiting triple cello, gleaming unhelpfully where it sat out of arm’s reach on the stage beside her.

It was on the small side for such a magnificent instrument, not longer or wider than Zada’s thigh, and for one wild moment, she imagined tucking it under her arm and fleeing the scene entirely.

She’d memorized some remarks. But standing before the crowd of lavishly dressed wedding guests, feeling like a specimen under glass at a museum, she struggled to remember a word of what she had practiced in her mirror. She felt as if she were falling off a cliff.

Don’t look down, a familiar voice echoed in her memory. Hey, you’ll be okay.

Starting with a joke was out of the question. There was no way she could sell a punch line right now, and anyway, only a precious few at school had ever found her funny. Instead, she skipped to the next part of Buford’s formula.