Matched: Chapters 13–23

Everyone is in a good mood, giddy with the novelty of the whole activity.

“Em,” I say impulsively. “I have a compact you can borrow, if you want, for your Banquet. It’s golden. It would look perfect with your dress. I'll bring it over tomorrow morning.”

The oldroses took a lot of care to grow; each blossom was a triumph. But these are hardy, showy, bred for durability.

The stories didn’t have a plot; they weren't even really stories as much as they were descriptions, but they were beautiful and they lulled me to sleep.

I lean, too, instinctively helping to hide her, and soon Ky presses next to me, blocking her, too.

She swallows reflexively; I doubt she tastes anything as it goes down.

They meet my eyes and smile at me because now they can't be accused of showing any partiality.

My father sees me from the front room, where he sits on the divan waiting for my mother to finish.

I'm eating my breakfast, oatmeal again, steaming in its foilware dish when I hear the port announce: Cassia Reyes, your leisure activity, hiking, has been canceled for the day due to inclement weather.

Acadia is one of the more heavily forested provinces to the east, miles away from our rolling hills and rivered valleys here in Oria.

Once the Officer cures the melodrama accompanying the injury, they find that all Lon has is a slightly twisted ankle.

I wonder why the Officer bothered hauling Lon to the top at all until I hear him muttering something to Ky about “making quota so they don’t get after me.”

While she chatters at the Officer, Ky and I stand up and casually trample what we’ve written into oblivion.

He’s a cheerful, burly looking man, not at all the cerebral, ascetic type I imagine hovering over datascreens in the Match Department.

He’s a cheerful, burly looking man, not at all the cerebral, ascetic type I imagine hovering over datascreens in the Match Department.

He’s a cheerful, burly looking man, not at all the cerebral, ascetic type I imagine hovering over datascreens in the Match Department.

In the greenspace, I catch sight of a flower bed full of the ever-present newroses and also some kind of ethereal wildflower.

People look at us as we pass among the tables. We're clearly the youngest patrons there.

The Boroughs in this area are primarily family boroughs, full of parents and contracted couples and youth under the age of twenty-one.

I want to comfort Em, but I have to try to save my artifact, futile as the effort might be.

I don’t think anyone else could see the glint of cunning in his eyes, but I know him so well.

“You are each partnered with another hiker according to ability assessed by analyzing the data I collected from your earlier hikes. That means Ky is paired with Cassia; Livy is paired with Tay...”

The tower looks precarious but does not fall.

“Yesterday...” I begin. I have to ask, as inconsequential as the question now seems. “Were you teaching Livy how to write?”

“I know,” he says. “But at least it’s not expressly forbidden.”

“Was she gone?” Em asks, and I realize that my mother’s absence is likely one of those things that we aren’t supposed to mention outside of our family. Not that the Officials said that explicitly; it’s simply the kind of thing we've learned to keep to ourselves.

The most defiant she’s ever been was when the Officials searched my father.

In the middle of the crease Ky drew a village, little houses, little people. But all the people lie prone, on their backs. No one stands straight, except the two Kys.

They look earnest and on edge in their white uniforms, their faces showing more stress than usual.

Em rolls her eyes at me and gestures at the boys as if to say, “Can you believe how primitive this is?”

I sit between Ky and Xander, equidistant from both of them.

Xander plays with daring and intelligence, Ky with a kind of deep and calculated intuition; both are strong.

“It was one of my father’s favorite stories to tell. I think he wanted to be like Sisyphus, because Sisyphus was crafty and sneaky and always causing trouble for the Society and the Officials.”

A few days later, I sit in Language and Literacy, staring at the instructor as she talks about the importance of composing succinct messages when communicating via port.

“Of course,” she says, her tone now touched with what sounds like regret, "I had to tell the testing Officials that, unless we see a change in some of your personal relationships, we would be averse to hiring you. And I had to mention to them that you might also be unfit for other sorting-related work if these things keep up.”

Bram’s is a sigh of disappointment and mine is a sigh of something else I can’t quite define. Longing? Nostalgia?

They have perfected the art of giving us just enough freedom; just enough that when we are ready to snap, a little bone is offered and we roll over, belly up, comfortable and placated like a dog I saw once when we visited my grandparents in the Farmlands.

The next morning I wake to a shrieking so high and keening that I bolt straight out of bed, tearing the sleep tags from my skin.

Her long, blond hair streams behind her, and she looks almost unearthly until she pulls me into arms that feel real and strong.

This is another intimacy so shocking and unusual that I am taken aback.