Matched

I should feel pleased, but I can tel there is something more coming.

“But none of these words are your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says gently.

Tears sting my eyes and I look down at my hands. My hands that, like almost everyone else in our Society, cannot write, that merely know how to use the words of others. Words that have disappointed my grandfather. I wish I had brought a rock like Bram. Or nothing at al . Even coming here empty-handed would be better than disappointing Grandfather.

“You have words of your own, Cassia,” Grandfather says to me. “I have heard some of them, and they are beautiful. And you have already given me a gift by visiting so often. I stil love this letter because it is from you. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I want you to trust your own words. Do you understand?”

I look up and meet his eyes, and nod, because I know that’s what he’l want me to do, and I can give that gift to him even if my letter is a failure.

And then I think of something else. Since that day on the air train, I’ve kept the cottonwood seed in the pocket of my plainclothes. I pul it out now and give it to him.

“Ah,” he says, lifting it up to look at it more closely. “Thank you, my dear. Look. It’s trailing clouds of glory.”

Now I wonder if Grandfather is starting to slip away already. I don’t know what he means. I glance at the door, wondering if I should get one of my parents.

“I’m an old hypocrite, too,” he says, his eyes mischievous again. “I told you to use your own words, and now I’m going to ask you for someone else’s. Let me see your compact.”

Surprised, I hold it out to him. He takes it and taps it sharply against his palm, twists something. The base of the compact opens up and I gasp in shock as a paper fal s out. I can see right away that it is old—heavy and thick and creamy, not slick and white like the curls of paper that come out of the ports or the scribes.

Grandfather unfolds the paper careful y, gently. I try not to look too closely, in case he does not want me to see, but with a glance I can tel that the words are old, too. The type is not one in use anymore; the letters are smal and black and cramped together.

His fingers tremble; whether it is from the end of his life drawing close or because of what he holds in his hand, I do not know. I want to help him, but I can tel that this is something he must do himself.

It doesn’t take long for him to read the paper, and when he’s finished, he closes his eyes. An emotion crosses his face that I cannot read.

Something deep.

Then he opens his bright, beautiful eyes and looks straight at me while he folds the paper back up. “Cassia. This is for you. It’s even more precious than the compact.”

“But it’s so—” I stop before I can say the word dangerous.

There is no time. I hear my father and mother and brother speaking in the hal .

Grandfather looks at me with love in his eyes, and holds the paper out to me. A chal enge, an offering, a gift. After a moment, I reach for it. My fingers close around the paper and he lets go.

He gives me back the compact, too; the paper fits neatly inside. As I snap the artifact shut, Grandfather leans toward me.

“Cassia,” he whispers. “I am giving you something you won’t understand, yet. But I think you wil someday. You, more than the rest. And, remember. It’s al right to wonder.”

He holds on for a long time. It is an hour before midnight in a deep blue night when Grandfather looks at us and says the best words of al with which to end a life. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

We al say it back to him. Each of us means it and he smiles. He leans back on his pil ows and closes his eyes.

Everything inside him has worked perfectly. He has lived a good life. It ends as it is supposed to end, at exactly the right time. I am holding his hand when he dies.

CHAPTER 8

None of the showings are new,” our friend Sera complains. “They’ve been the same for the past two months.” Saturday night again; the same conversation as the week before.

“It’s better than the other two choices,” Em says. “Isn’t it?” She glances over at me, waiting for my opinion. I nod. The choices are the same as usual: game center, showing, music. It’s been less than a week since Grandfather’s death, and I feel strange. He is gone, and now I know that there are stolen words inside my compact. It feels strange to know something others don’t and to have something I shouldn’t.

“So another vote from Cassia for the showing,” Em says, keeping track. She winds a strand of black hair around her finger, looks at Xander.

“What about you?”

I’m sure Xander wants to go back to the game center, but I don’t. Our last excursion there didn’t end so wel , what with my stepping on the tablets and having to meet with an Official.

Xander knows what I’m thinking. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “You weren’t the one who dropped them. It’s not as though they cited you or anything.”

“I know. But stil .”