Chapter Nine In Which an Affair Is Revealed
Zada awoke at dawn. She lay in bed for half an hour, staring at the lofty ceilings and the very real-looking medieval tapestries on the walls, trying to convince herself she would not get lost the moment she left the room to seek some sort of food in Daphne’s echoing labyrinth of a family home.
Daphne was already seated at the kitchen table, which was humbler than the dining room table last night but still overwhelmingly grand.
Her eyes were half closed as she fumbled with the small glowing green SmartGem on her ring, which beamed screen after screen across the polished mahogany, ready for Daphne to flick through.
A mug of tea sat next to an untouched plate of fried eggs.
Without looking, Daphne groped for her mug by feel and took a sip.
About half of her hair stuck straight up, and beneath her dressing gown, she wore an oversize black T-shirt.
In faded script, it read clandestine meetings in the catacombs!
This was likely the name of some grotto rock band from a lifetime ago.
The neck of the shirt sagged, baring a good portion of Daphne’s collarbone.
Zada jerked her gaze away from the smooth expanse of skin, hovering in the doorway for a long minute.
“Good morning,” said Zada.
“Hey.” Daphne blinked up at her. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Anything’s fine.”
“Great. A mug of lukewarm mustard-water garnished with a single floating grape—coming right up!”
“Soup for breakfast?” said Zada, and then, when that failed to earn a laugh, added, “Anyway, grapes don’t float.”
She’d seated herself one chair away from Daphne before remembering that she no longer needed to keep a careful distance from other debutantes. Not only that, she and Daphne were coconspirators now.
She moved to sit beside Daphne.
“Oh, fine. I’m ordering you black tea and a portobello omelet,” Daphne said, tapping an interface embedded into the surface of the table.
That had been Zada’s favorite breakfast at school.
“Thanks,” Zada said. Before Daphne could go back to her myriad of floating screens, Zada added, “We should strategize.”
She darted a look around, as if Daphne’s stately grandfather might be crouched beneath the table or sandwiched between the curtains. But no one was within hearing distance.
Still, Zada lowered her voice and continued, “Look, I need those thousands of names and Mx. Beauchamp seems like the best way to get them. Would you mind coming with me and grabbing the list with my clone-scanner while I, uh, pretend to have a lot of feelings about my wedding dress?”
“Are you sure?” said Daphne.
In all their escapades, Zada had never played the role of distraction. Daphne was much better suited to it—it was practically her calling in life. Zada would need to think on her feet. It was too bad she couldn’t study her way into being a practiced liar and a convincing grifter.
“Don’t forget, Mx. Beauchamp’s list will include me,” said Zada with a wince. “I’m the obvious choice to feign interest in a gown. I guess I’ll have to pull up some styles and create a color palette. I don’t suppose you have any thoughts?”
“None whatsoever,” said Daphne. “But I can fake it. I hear silver and salmon are big right now.”
“That would spice up the wedding,” Zada mused. “A turf war with Ursa Neale.”
Daphne tilted her head, considering. It drew attention to the graceful line of her neck.
“I’ll be careful,” Daphne said and grinned. “Ursa strikes me as a biter.”
Zada had never been inside of Beauchamp’s, for obvious reasons.
It was almost impossibly quiet within the shop.
After the noisy bustle of downtown, the soft silence was a relief.
The walls and ceiling were padded in a pale velvetlike material that was likely designed to soak up the decibels.
After a moment of looking around at the tasteful decor and the gilded mannequins, Zada realized that the abstract sculpture mounted above the entrance was emitting white noise.
When Mx. Beauchamp murmured “Welcome, do you have an appointment?” at Zada’s elbow, Zada nearly jumped.
Mx. Beauchamp was very short, with dark skin and gorgeously silvery hair.
They wore a flowy, high-necked blouse and trousers tucked into boots with a towering heel that put them nearly of a height with Daphne.
“Hello,” she said, attempting to match the designer’s low, melodic tone. “I’m here for an appointment. My name is Zada—”
“Chambers, yes,” Mx. Beauchamp said. “I have your dress right here.” They gestured to a gold-inlaid changing screen set up in the back of the shop.
“You do?” said Zada, baffled.
Mx. Beauchamp chuckled, the sound as pleasant as their speaking voice.
“We’re the best in the business, Miss Chambers.
Once you made your appointment, we accessed your feed profile.
The data provided on your height, weight, dress size, body type, and complexion allowed us to craft the perfect wedding gown for you—all before you walked in our door.
We may need to adjust the fit, and of course we can further customize it based on any input you might have, but we find that most of our clientele are very happy with the results of our proprietary algorithm. ”
The speech had a rehearsed air to it, marked by a series of precise rises and falls.
“That’s—” Zada hesitated, glancing at Daphne who widened her eyes. Go on, Daphne was clearly saying. Distract. “That’s wonderful to hear. I’ll just go and, um, try on the dress, then.”
Zada slipped behind the screen, palms strangely sweaty.
Mx. Beauchamp handed over the bundle of soft, pure white fabric, and Zada slipped it over her head.
Fastening the buttons took some work, but that was a good thing.
Her job was to delay and grab focus while Daphne did her digging.
Finally, she smoothed down the front of the dress and stared at her reflection in the mirror, which populated with the measurements of the dress, as well as her age, height, and weight.
“Well, what do you think?” Mx. Beauchamp sounded softly triumphant.
Zada closed her eyes briefly, trying to will away the wave of disappointment that crashed over her as she regarded herself. The dress was ridiculous, a complex architecture of draping and flounces, covered in enough ruffles that it could have just as easily formed an entire second gown.
“It’s, um.” Zada searched for a phrase that wasn’t absolutely horrendous. “Nice.”
“You’re very lucky, you know,” Mx. Beauchamp called. “We just updated the analytical model that we use. Your dress is perfectly optimized to suit your looks.”
From the other side of the screen came two light knocks. “May I come in?” said Daphne. “Are you decent?”
“Extremely,” said Zada and Daphne joined her in the cramped space.
“Beauchamp’s watching me,” Daphne mouthed. Out loud, she said, “Hmm, your thoughts?”
“I look like a lamp.” Belatedly, Zada remembered that Mx. Beauchamp was listening in. She added, “A very beautiful one. But I think I’d prefer something with less—” Zada gestured at the fountain of ruffles.
“Sleeker?” Daphne suggested.
“Simpler,” Zada agreed.
“Sophisticated,” said Daphne. “Less is more and all that.”
“I have another mock-up you could try,” said Mx. Beauchamp. They coughed tactfully. “But it won’t hang as well on your shape.”
“I’ll try it,” Zada said firmly, her face burning at the implied insult.
Zada stood on her tiptoes to retrieve the new dress from over the screen.
Even holding it in her hands, she could already tell it had a more pared-down silhouette.
She started undoing the buttons that ran down her side, ready to shed this mathematically perfect monstrosity.
Daphne froze. “I’ll just duck out for a moment. You, uh, take your time. Changing.” There was an odd note in her voice. If this was Daphne attempting to act cool and natural as she removed herself for some skullduggery—well, Zada had notes.
Alone again, Zada yanked off the ruffled mass of white and draped it over the screen.
Then she carefully slipped on the new dress.
She breathed out, twisting to one side and then the other.
The far simpler skirt swirled lightly after her, a waterfall of light fabric with an understated floral pattern in rose gold.
The neckline plunged a little too low for comfort, but other than that—
“I love it,” Zada breathed. The numbers on the margins of the mirror blurred as she stared at herself.
On the other side of the screen, Mx. Beauchamp was saying, “So, Daphne, when do you suppose I’ll be working on your gown? I’ve had a sample in the back room since you turned eighteen.”
“Maybe sooner rather than later,” Daphne murmured politely. Apparently, she hadn’t managed to sneak away.
“We found the perfect color for you,” Mx. Beauchamp continued. “A lesser dressmaker might pick a shade of white that makes your skin look sallow, but I guarantee you’ll look ravishing in this ecru.”
“I know,” said Daphne. “I’ve seen the pictures, what you made for my mother.”
At that, Mx. Beauchamp burst into a fit of coughs. When they recovered, they said, “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never had the privilege of working with your family before, I’m afraid. I’m simply honored to have the opportunity to dress a direct descendant of one of the Founders.”
“Right,” Daphne muttered. “My mistake.”
Zada couldn’t bear to listen any longer. She stepped out from behind the screen with some half-formed wish to redirect the conversation.
Daphne turned and then went unaccountably still. “There it is,” she said softly. “The glow.” And perhaps Zada was imagining it, but Daphne sounded almost admiring. Their gazes met in one of the many mirrors lining the walls. Zada felt her cheeks heat at Daphne’s regard. This was a disaster.
Zada cleared her throat. “I’ll take this one, please.”
“If you’re absolutely sure,” said Beauchamp, brow furrowing. “Only, according to our analysis—”
“I’m certain,” Zada repeated.
“Give her the dress, Mx. Beauchamp,” Daphne said. “Or are you in the business of ignoring the desires of your customers?”
“I would never dream of it,” Mx. Beauchamp said smoothly. They immediately began fussing with the fit of the dress, muttering to themself about taking up the hem another half inch and adjusting the shoulders.
“And perhaps slightly more fabric at the neckline?” Zada suggested.
“Like a ruffle?” said Mx. Beauchamp, raising their head hopefully. “A series of ruffles, perhaps?”
“Uh, yes. Exactly.” Over Mx. Beauchamp’s head, Zada jerked her chin at Daphne, who started edging away toward the back room. “Could I take a look at the, er, ruffle samples you have?”
“How many would you like to see?” Mx. Beauchamp’s eyes were gleaming now. “I have a few classic designs, as well as a layered lace one that—”
“Show me all of them,” Zada said.
“Of course,” Mx. Beauchamp said. They waved a hand at a nearby mirror, which shifted to a display of ruffle designs. “Now this one up here is my personal favorite—”
Excruciatingly long minutes passed as Mx. Beauchamp explored their passion for ruffles and the latest in moisture-wicking, sun-shielding, body-cooling textile innovation. Eventually, Daphne slipped back into the room, and Zada jabbed a finger at random.
“I’ll go with this one,” she said. It must have been the right answer, because Mx. Beauchamp clapped their hands together in delight. They hurried away, muttering something about putting in another order at the warehouse, and disappeared through the curtain in the back.
When Zada finished changing back into her clothes, she came face-to-face with Daphne, who was wearing a mischievous grin.
“Do you have the—?” Zada mouthed.
Daphne nodded. “Child’s play,” she said, leaning nonchalantly against the privacy screen. It tilted dangerously with a loud clatter. They both dove for the screen, their fingers brushing together as they righted it.
Zada immediately snatched her hand back, a year of deliberately avoiding any touch still burned into her synapses. She imagined a heat map of her body, glowing bright red where they had briefly made contact.
“Careful, that tips,” said Daphne.
“Thank you,” said Zada with feeling.
“Yeah, yeah,” Daphne whispered. “Are you okay? You look a little—flushed. Pink. Red, almost—”
“Why do you have Flora’s Gracelet?” Zada blurted out. When Daphne stilled, Zada hurried on. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t snooping through your things. It’s just that I found it in the drawer while I was looking for a brush and—”
“All right, all right, don’t hurt yourself.” Daphne sighed. “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever have to talk about this. Not with you. Considering we stopped being friends and all that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The truth is,” Daphne said, then groaned. “The truth is that when Flora came to visit me about”—she lowered her voice until it was barely audible—“the thing she came to visit me about, sometimes she would come alone, and we’d—you know.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“You know,” said Daphne again, as if saying the exact same thing with the exact same cadence might bring greater clarity.
“I still don’t.”
“We—” Daphne huffed a sigh again and scanned the area. Then she leaned in to whisper in Zada’s ear, her breath tickling the nape of Zada’s neck. “We had a series of assignations.”
“You—what?” Zada hissed back.
“It’s what it sounds like. She was so keyed up about the wedding, she just wanted some way to cut loose. Please don’t make me spell it out further,” Daphne murmured.
“Oh.” Zada’s cheeks were on fire now. She couldn’t fathom it—Daphne and Flora.
“She must have dropped her Gracelet one of the nights she stayed over—” The curtain in the back parted, and Daphne straightened. At a normal volume she said, “Buford will faint when he sees you in that dress, I bet.”
“I agree,” Mx. Beauchamp said. “Miss Chambers, everything’s all set. Your gown will be ready two weeks before your wedding.” Zada didn’t bother to ask how Mx. Beauchamp knew when her wedding was. “Now if you’ll allow me to show you a few looks for Miss Fallow to wear as your maid of honor . . .”
As Mx. Beauchamp directed Zada’s attention to the mirror once more, her gaze wandered to the one beside it that reflected Daphne, who wore a bemused smile on her face as she listened.
Daphne’s strange behavior recently—the intensity and volatility of her emotions at the wedding, the grim exhaustion etched into her face, the way she’d been determined to bring the wedding to a screeching halt—it all made perfect sense now. Daphne had formed an attachment to Flora.
Zada felt a twinge of sympathy. The day of Flora’s wedding must have been agony for Daphne. And that, no doubt, was why, even though they’d gotten exactly what they’d come for, Zada felt like her heart was on a small boat capsizing in an icy ocean.