“Right,” Rylin said, straight-faced. “That right there, that wit gets me every time.”

“If I get too forward, by all means, slap me.”

Rylin burst out laughing.

“If I ask a question, will you answer it honestly?” Cord’s voice sounded as irreverent as always, but she sensed a real purpose there.

“Only if you answer mine too.”

“Fair enough.” Cord leaned forward on his elbows. He’d rolled his shirtsleeves up, as if in challenge to the solemnity of their surroundings, revealing the dark hair on his forearms. “What do you want most?”

“To be happy,” Rylin said without thinking.

“That’s a cop-out answer. Of course you want to be happy. Everyone wants to be happy.” Cord made a dismissive gesture. “Maybe a better question is, what makes you happy?”

Rylin swirled the champagne, buying time. Suddenly she wasn’t sure what made her happy anymore. “What do you dream about?” Cord tried again, seeing her hesitation.

“That’s easy. My mom.”

“That she’s alive again?”

“Yeah.”

Cord nodded. “I have that dream too,” he said quietly, as serious as she’d ever seen him.

“My turn.” Rylin wanted to edge away from this kind of talk. They were in Paris, after all. “Where do you go when you cut school?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“Wha—How do you know I cut school?” Cord asked sharply.

“I pay attention. Come on, it’s my turn to ask questions, remember?”

Cord shook his head, laughing a little under his breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t answer that one. Ask something else.”

Rylin was still curious, but she let it go. “What would you have done if I hadn’t come today?”

“Of course you were going to come. Why deal in hypotheticals?”

“But what if I hadn’t?” she persisted.

“I’d have tried to return the tickets, probably. Or I might have come alone, you never know. Someone’s got to get those éclairs for Chrissa.”

“You aren’t as much of an asshole as you pretend to be,” Rylin remarked.

“And you aren’t as tough as you pretend to be. Besides,” Cord said, with a bit of a smirk, “my pretend assholedom got you here, didn’t it?”

“Paris got me here,” Rylin corrected, and Cord laughed.

“Well, then, to Paris.” He lifted his glass.

“To Paris,” Rylin repeated softly. She clinked her champagne to his in the flickering candlelight, wondering what exactly she thought she was doing. But she couldn’t summon even a shred of regret.

* * *

Two hours later, stuffed with whipped pepper potatoes and an unbelievable animal-sourced steak—not the lab-grown stuff, but a real steak from a real cow that had lived and eaten grass and died—Rylin and Cord were walking back to the train station. At some point they had started holding hands, their fingers interlaced, Cord running his thumb lightly over the back of her wrist. It sent shivers up and down her body. Rylin knew she should pull away, and yet she didn’t.

“Oh! It’s the bridge of locks!” she exclaimed, catching sight of the Pont des Arts, which had been restored years ago with the same ultra-strong carbon composites used in the Tower. The moonlight silvered the padlocks fastened all over the bridge, where so many countless lovers had locked their hearts and thrown the key into the river. The sky stretched endlessly overhead, unobstructed by any tall buildings. The river lapped beneath their feet.

Rylin stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned in a slow circle, arms outstretched. She hoped, belatedly, that she wasn’t being overly romantic by bringing Cord here. But of course she was. This was the lovers’ bridge.

Sure enough, Cord stepped up to reach for her shoulders. Rylin’s arms fell to her sides as she turned slowly to face him. You can stop this, she reminded herself, but she didn’t, she couldn’t, or maybe she just didn’t want to. It seemed to Rylin that she was in a sort of trance, that time had halted and the whole world was holding its breath.

Cord’s lips on hers felt like fire. Without another thought she was rising on tiptoe to kiss him back, clinging tight to his shoulders as the only solid thing in a dizzying world. She knew this was wrong, but Hiral felt so far away, like someone she’d imagined in another life.

Rylin wasn’t sure how long they stood there, intertwined on the lovers’ bridge in Paris. Eventually Cord pulled away. His hair was disheveled and he was grinning, and he still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Now,” he said, “let’s go get those éclairs for Chrissa, before we miss the last train back.”

A splash sounded in the water behind them, as another pair of lovers tossed a key off the bridge and into the night.

WATT

IT WAS DARK inside Bubble Lounge.

Watt walked in slowly, trying to look around without making it obvious that he’d never been here before. The space was huge, with sable walls and a black-lacquered bar manned by pale, thin bartenders. The ultraviolet light overhead picked out spots of neon color: the napkins, the glitter on most girls’ arms and faces, even their neon-painted fingernails. But most striking were the dozens of glowing neon bubbles, each about the size of a dinner plate, that floated around the room at eye level. Hence the name Bubble Lounge, Watt realized. He’d thought this would be a champagne bar, but that only showed how little he knew about the upper floors.