Unlike Robin, I knew the Assembly developed the ritual a few years after the first Rebirth. The pill had been even more imperfect back then, and workers had only partially forgotten their romantic attachments, which had led to thousands of disputes. The fastening, offered in place of marriage, had brought about peace.

Under the fastening laws, couples entered into a relationship knowing it could not endure longer than a year. All romantic involvements were automatically dissolved with the Rebirth. Each man was free to take a hut with a new woman, and vice versa.

Fresh tears wet Robin’s eyes. “They say romantic love is like a warm bath that never gets cold.”

“Who says that?”

She shrugged. “People. My sister knew a woman whose grandmother loved a man. The grandmother said their love survived seventy-seven times seven Rebirths.”

“Obi, Robin. Seventy-seven times seven is over five hundred years. Even if they were Framers, their love would last until 500 A.E. That’s three hundred years from now.”

“How romantic.”

I gave up reasoning. If Jones heard this sort of talk, Robin would be recommended for intermittent erasure. Two erasures in one year—twice the risk of misfire. I leaned forward and took hold of her shoulders. “Listen to me. Your notions of marriage are fantastical. More, they’re contrary to the law.”

“Maybe I hate the law.”

My hand flew to muzzle her mouth. “Robin! You don’t mean that. You’re just upset about the child.”

“Wren. Her name was Wren,” Robin said, her voice muffled. Her eyes welled and overflowed onto my hands.

Stung, I yanked my hand back. I wiped it on my skirt. “Yes, her,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to say her name. It stuck in my throat and hung in the air between us.

Robin took a deep breath. “Wren,” she said, again. Amazingly, the word seemed to comfort her. She wrapped her arms around her waist and I sat, uncomfortable, as she said it again. “Wren.”

* * *

When we parted a few minutes later, Robin was subdued, but safe. She had agreed to return to work in the morning. So why did I feel so bad? I stopped outside the kitchen, my back pressed to the stone wall. A cramp tightened my empty stomach. Slowly, my knees bent.

As the lie goes, a soul cannot forget and cannot be erased. If the deceased was truly the object of another’s soul-deep love, they would be remembered in their lover’s story and, thus, receive a place in eternity. The workers themselves developed the lie, we think, to ease the pain of premature death. We First Brothers merely incorporated their falsehood into the web of contentment we wove around the village for the greater good.