It was the kind of conversation in which I’d not felt entirely fluent since my extraction. I could recall the way Dolores had once talked incessantly with girlfriends, trading anecdotes and insights on fashion and appearance and society life, but that had been some time ago. For my part, I had Camille and the Professor and the disparate manners in which I conversed with each, and I couldn’t help assigning more relevance and interest to the nature of things I spoke of with him. While my friendship with Camille reminded me sometimes of life before the extraction—of the blessing of female companionship and love—it seemed to be those discussions with the Professor that grounded me in the life I was leading now, that kept me from lamenting all the failed friendships since. Those talks—and his occasional revelations, be they bleak or disenchanting—informed my understanding of the world and the people in it. So when Camille caught sight of a mother searching for a pair of seats, her little girl in tow, I knew what made Camille’s breath stop, even as she most certainly did not.

We’d chosen balcony seats beneath the decadent stained-glass ceiling. Framed with exquisite moldings in colors so vibrant I couldn’t help but smile up at them, the concave space narrowed toward what seemed at first to be a skylight. Had we not just come in from the chilly winter’s night, I may have wondered whether it was the sun that shone so brightly behind the glass above my head. Even with something unique to see in every direction, the faux skylight could not be outdone. Not even when I had stained glass of my own, in the Vault, would that theater be called to comparison.

Camille had been sharing my adoration of the design only moments before, but now she’d fallen quiet. When finally I recognized the uncharacteristic silence, I found her watching the mother and child intensely, turned in her seat to keep the pair in view. It seemed she couldn’t help herself, even when the couple sitting behind us noticed her staring as well and began giving her silent remonstrations. Finally, the little girl and her mother sat down and Camille returned to me—or else I saw the crest of her eyebrows releasing, her eyes glistening while she bit her lip.

I put my hand on hers and she smiled sheepishly.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, her cheeks and chest flushing. But then her expression became one of sincerity and a wrenching sadness she should not have remembered. “There’s something about seeing a mother and her little girl. I just...”

Now she was self-conscious, glancing around before touching the skin above her mouth, either to hide it or to shield the outside world from whatever she meant to say.