Chapter Seventeen A Song, a Ball, and a Catastrophe #2
A lifetime surrounded by creatures just like you, unable to speak a word to any of them or comprehend a word in turn.
To open your mouth to scream, and only be able to make soothing melodies for the enjoyment of your captors.
Zada felt a rush of relief when they left the birds behind and the glass hall opened into an immaculate chamber of cases displaying relics from the past. Around them, ball guests peered through their masks at the riches in glass cases, protected by barely visible force fields.
“Have you been here before?” Zada muttered under her breath.
“Only as a small child,” said Daphne, “but after a certain point, the layouts of these mansions are all about the same.”
Some of the items on display were fascinating—Zada had to tear her eyes away from an antique electric guitar, its body ornamented with stylized flames—but most were unremarkable pieces of paper with dull, hard-to-decipher cursive headlines like Transcription of the 1789 Joint Resolution of Congress Proposing 12 Amendments and so on.
“Money doesn’t buy taste,” whispered Daphne as they crossed the room.
“Having neither, I can’t comment,” said Zada.
Daphne poked her lightly in the ribs. “Come on, none of that,” she said. “You have tons of taste. Miles of taste. Taste out the wazoo, which sounds uncomfortable. You’ve got more sense than to disparage one of the best people I know.”
“Sense out the wazoo,” said Zada half-heartedly.
“It’s a very crowded wazoo,” agreed Daphne.
“You might want to see a doctor.” She whisked them through the next door, which brought them into a library.
The customary half-empty shelves were artfully filled in with curios and old paintings.
From what sounded like several rooms away, Zada detected the faintest strains of Rossini.
Fewer people lingered here. The art itself was unremarkable, judging by Daphne’s reaction, and the fact that most people with the money for it owned more or less the same decorative volumes took away from the fun of snooping.
Zada thought back to their clandestine talk with the sisters and what Sister Patience had said about the two percent of books she and Daphne were still allowed to access.
Some of those tomes had to be forbidden for good reason.
Then again, the grotto rock concert had been illegal as well, and that had felt—well, she didn’t have words for what it had felt like, before the guards and ships had rushed in.
But surely there was nothing truly wrong with what had transpired on that stage.
If there were books like that, new worlds like that—she felt a sudden fierce hunger to stand in a room surrounded by that other ninety-eight percent of books, to run her fingers across the spines and choose one at random, to open it up and see what was so dangerous that she apparently couldn’t be trusted with it.
Zada feigned interest in a portrait with disquieting eyes, waiting until nobody was in earshot. When the coast was clear, she said in a low voice, “How much time will you need for your, ah, diversion?”
“Ten minutes or thereabouts?” said Daphne.
“I’ll have to find the kitchen first, but then it should be rather instantaneous.
” She grinned. Zada grinned back helplessly, wishing with passion that this night could be over, that the question of her soulmate could be resolved—and that she could find some darkened room and the time to kiss Daphne until their lips were sore, until they both forgot their own names.
If everything went according to plan, maybe, just maybe, that could come later.
Zada figured she could roughly mark time by counting along with the songs. She nodded.
“What do you think our odds are?” Zada asked in an undertone.
“Probably better not to know,” replied Daphne. She took Zada’s hand and squeezed it gently, three quick pulses. Zada squeezed back, in the same triplet pattern.
She imagined a spy’s encrypted message.
One two three.
I love you.
She was getting ahead of herself. They had barely even spoken about it, their feelings. Daphne might want to kiss her but she might not want this, not the impossible stew of deeply embarrassing emotion and half-formed dreams Zada was too afraid to fully articulate, even inside her own head.
“But,” said Daphne slowly, “I’ve never had more reason to try.”
Zada’s heart pounded. Not knowing what else to do, she squeezed Daphne’s hand again.
The next room was an enormous atrium, built around a magnificent five-tiered floating fountain that was held aloft by its own water pressure. From behind her mask, Daphne’s eyes sparkled. She had always loved pulling a stunt around a fountain.
“All right,” said Daphne. “Mozelle will be in the ballroom, which should be nearby.”
“Judging from the music, I’d say it’s the next room over,” Zada confirmed.
Daphne nodded. “Brilliant. Ten minutes, and then you’re up. Find Mozelle, and meet me back in the library.” And then, with a warmth that made the words feel almost like an embrace, she said, “Hey. Good luck.”
“Good luck,” said Zada. She did her best to infuse her voice with that same warmth and, yes, love.
With a deep breath, Zada stepped into Mozelle Drogace’s ballroom.
A chamber orchestra of perhaps forty musicians sat to one side.
They were just starting up Johann Strauss II’s “Fledermaus Quadrille,” but Zada could easily beg off joining, since the song required a number of dancers divisible by four.
Some small part of her had been excited to hear more music performed live by professionals of the highest caliber, but after last night’s concert, the familiar strains of the quadrille felt almost comically stuffy.
For the first time, Zada wondered why these formal occasions so rarely allowed compositions by anyone who had drawn breath within the past several hundred years. Her piece for Flora and Aiden’s wedding had only been permitted for sentimentality, as the bride’s dear friend.
Flora. She hoped Flora was all right. It was unlike her to remain out of touch for so long.
Zada had to believe Flora was simply absorbed in her honeymoon.
She reminded herself that this could be good news, and if it was bad news, there was nothing she could do about it at the moment anyway.
When she got the Heartsong data, she would have to check Flora’s match too.
There had to be a reason Flora had been so against marrying Aiden.
She found a spot by a pillar toward the back and scanned the vast ballroom. Zada could feel the weight of the clone-scanner in her left pocket. She took a deep breath.
Daphne had drilled Zada on Mozelle’s appearance and preferred dress.
Mozelle was a short, fat woman with high cheekbones, a graceful bearing, and a love of beautiful things.
If past balls were any indication, Mozelle Drogace would be wearing something both fashionable and eye-catching.
This ruled a number of costumes out. A disappointing percentage of ballgoers had played it safe.
There were at least a dozen people dressed as a shepherdess, quite a few figures from classical mythology, and easily a coven’s worth of witches in sparkling black.
Several guests of roughly Mozelle’s dimensions had opted for a more tailored, Victorian silhouette, or a garment so flowing and loose as to be firmly out of style. Zada ruled them out as well.
The quadrille wound up to its conclusion. Zada was losing time. She circled the perimeter methodically, on the lookout for bright colors, sumptuous fabrics, and the telltale empire waist.
Finally, from the other side of the dance floor, Zada spotted a squat person with excellent posture and a magnificent dress, in animated conversation with a vampire wrapped in a black cape.
The dress looked to be made of real velvet and the wearer had accessorized it with an elaborate headdress.
Unless Zada was mistaken, the costume was Catherine of Aragon, renowned as a sterling example of fidelity over all else to her match, Henry VIII. A queen to rule over the party—fitting.
Zada strode up with the single-minded purpose of verifying the person’s identity, and if all went well, capturing enough off Mozelle’s SmartGem to finally access the key to her freedom.
Conversation with the vampire broke off abruptly. They had both seen her coming.
Zada fell back on the only social script that occurred to her, one from the classic novels she’d devoured at school.
She curtseyed, watched as “Catherine” returned the gesture, and asked, “Pardon me, madam, but may I have this next dance?”
The queen and the vampire exchanged glances.
The pause went on long enough that Zada began to wonder if she had committed a faux pas.
Surely at a costume ball, the one socially acceptable place to discreetly flirt with strangers, a person could ask another unknown person to dance.
It was the reason everyone was careful not to let their masks slip.
“Very well,” said the woman, holding out one elegantly draped arm. “Shall we, then?”
Years of etiquette class had drilled into Zada that the one who made the first move was also the one who should lead.
She guided them to a spot toward the edge of the dance floor.
The orchestra struck up a waltz and Zada could at least take comfort that she knew what to do with her arms and legs, if not her words.
“An exquisite—um, an exquisite ball, isn’t it?” Zada managed as they took their first turn about the room.
The woman laughed. “I don’t see the need to stand on ceremony, given that you clearly know who I am, and I have a fairly clear idea who you are, as well.”
Zada continued to move through the motions of the waltz, running on pure muscle memory.
“I—what?” Zada stammered.