The Detection
When I returned home, the Spring dress Madame Biltcliffe made for me last year lay draped across my bed.
It was beautiful: green shantung silk with black embroidery. I’d last seen it amongst the other items I sold at auction to pay Mr. Doyle Pike’s fees.
Seeing the dress was bittersweet. I so enjoyed trying it on last spring, yet now it reminded me too much of Madame. I hung it in my closet.
I still didn’t know if I wanted to go to the 500th Celebration.
I loved fireworks, but they reminded me of my dead friend Air. We’d watched them together every time the quadrant-folk put on their shows.
I felt grateful for the founding of Bridges 500 years ago. But I hated the cost of such events: the endless reporters, the crowds, the glares from the other women. And I’d have to de
