Chapter Four The 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.”
Zada glanced at her parents to gauge their reaction.
Legislator Aisha Bassey was known to be one of only a handful of reformers with any power in New Ionia.
Very early on in her career, she’d even attempted to advance a bill legalizing a kind of lesser marriage between people who had lost their soulmates for more than fifteen years.
Several decades of good work for the city had gone a long way to rehabilitate her public image since then, but the taint of scandal still lingered.
According to Flora, who’d heard it from Aiden, a few classmates had even cut ties with Buford after he started working for Legislator Bassey.
Zada’s parents didn’t pay much attention to politics, though, and her mother only beamed at Buford. “An aide to a legislator! You’ll have to tell us all about it when you come over for dinner.”
“Assuming you can escape your duties for a social call, of course,” Zada’s father added.
“Nonsense,” said Mom, giving Buford another bracing thump on the back. “He’s at a social call right now, isn’t he? Tell me, Buford, how do you feel about shrimp?”
As they were making dinner plans, the quartet began to play a familiar air.
“I believe that’s our cue,” Buford said, bowing to Zada’s parents before leading her away.
It was the first waltz of the evening for the newly engaged, and they would be the only three couples dancing. Zada tried to steady her breathing as Buford placed one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“A bit,” she admitted.
And then the dance began. This was the easy part, she thought as they circled the floor together. She had been counting in 3/4 time for nearly as long as she’d been able to count at all, and the dance was one she’d rehearsed many times before.
Back at school, Daphne had executed countless pranks during dance class to distract from her own inability to learn footwork.
Finally, Zada had taken it upon herself to teach her friend at one-tenth the usual pace.
They’d snuck into the ballroom after hours, waltzing in slow motion, as if moving through something thick and viscous only they could feel.
Daphne had made her laugh by speaking that way, too: “How . . . am . . . I . . . doing . . . Zada . . . ?” she’d say, right in Zada’s ear.
Her voice was slow and warm as honey, and it took all of Zada’s concentration to not miss a step.
Zada had always imagined that the two of them would be together when they sparked their Heartsongs, that they would share the joy of finding their soulmate the same way they’d shared countless other smaller joys. But Zada had been the one to cut Daphne off, and for good reason—
Buford was speaking, she realized belatedly. “I know it’s sentimental,” he said. “But if you’ll indulge me . . . ‘Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art, not in lone splendor hung aloft the night—’” His words were slightly off-rhythm with their quick, graceful steps.
This was Keats, Zada knew. When he finished, there was a brief but ringing silence, somehow not obscured by the quartet’s lovely playing.
Why had the academy taught them “Bright star, were I as steadfast as thou art,” but not how to respond when the love of your life dropped it onto your head like a too-small hat?
Maybe she should respond with more poetry. But the only verse that came to mind was from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” and it didn’t feel like the moment for waxing on about a dead albatross.
“That’s, um, thank you,” Zada managed. The dance continued.
She fought for something else to say. She tried in vain to recall something about Buford other than his general pleasantness, his interest in politics, or the open secret that his older brother had a gambling problem.
None of it felt even a molecule romantic.
Were all waltzes normally quite this long?
“Do you still play the violin?” Zada said at last. She had a hazy memory of leaving practice, her triple cello case tucked under one arm, and seeing Buford outside with an instrument case of his own.
That could be romantic—playing a duet together once they were married. Harmonizing in music and in life.
“Afraid not,” he said. “A sad casualty of my position. No real time for hobbies, unfortunately.”
“Oh,” said Zada.
Buford added hurriedly, “Not that the pursuit of music is frivolous. When we’re married, I’d fully support your career. My father always said that mastery of an instrument is priceless. Making music is what separates us from the animals, after all.”
“Except for birds,” said Zada. Buford lifted her hand, spinning her away and then back toward him.
“And crickets sing, of course.” Crickets were one of the very few insects still permitted in New Ionia.
“Frogs, too. And I believe whales were said to vocalize in a kind of song. Come to think of it, I’ve even read about a species of bat that—” She was rambling.
She cut herself off with a light laugh. “Sorry, this must be terribly boring to you.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Everything the love of my life wishes to say is of interest to me.”
“Oh,” Zada said. “Likewise, of course.”
“We have so much to teach each other,” said Buford.
“Of course,” she said again. “Absolutely.”
More silence.
Surely the dance was almost finished by now.
How long could two people be reasonably expected to waltz?
As Zada and Buford navigated around the other two couples in time with the music, it occurred to her that when the piece was over, they would still have to find things to say to each other, and without the excuse of being slightly out of breath from the steps.
She longed desperately to break away and talk to one of her friends instead. But Augusta was recently widowed, Flora newly married, Daphne was Daphne, and then—
And then there was Carine, her mind whispered.
Assuming Carine had even survived her Extrication.
Everyone knew the toxic wasteland surrounding New Ionia was barren and dangerous.
Zada had paid attention in civics class.
She knew Carine’s odds were so small there was no cause to assume she was still alive, which was yet another very compelling reason not to waste thought on her.
Zada made herself meet Buford’s eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. When she had dreamed of this night as a child, she hadn’t imagined that she would constantly need to remind herself to smile.
“How is work—” she managed, a half second after Buford blurted out, “So what are your—”
“Sorry,” said Zada. “Finish your question, please.”
“I was only going to say, what are your career goals? Not that,” he added, “it’s necessary for you to have every step of your job planned out ahead of you, I simply wondered if you’d given it thought.”
Zada nodded. “I’m trying out for every orchestra or ensemble that will let me audition,” she said. “The only trouble is, there are no openings until autumn. I’m stuck waiting.”
“That’s a shame,” Buford said. “What with all of the events of the Centennial needing music. Sorry, you were going to ask me—?”
“I was going to ask how your position is going.” It sounded a little dry to Zada’s ears, but she reminded herself that everything the love of her life had to say would be interesting to her.
And it was interesting. The conservative Founders Party had recently discovered that due to how the charter defined marriage, it was still technically legal in New Ionia to get divorced, as if they were in the kind of cheap vintage drama that got played at the Historical Society.
They sought to amend the law, while the more radical and reform-minded Establishment Party insisted there was no reason to rewrite the text itself, given that no married couple had needed to separate in over a hundred years.