grey tux and pink carnation. He who so despised ritual but was a good sport. His cheeks were pink, too, and his eyes sparkled with some wolfish fantasy. “Come here,” he whispered. Anne shushed him; you weren’t supposed to talk or touch during a casting; it could spoil the sims. “I can’t wait,” he whispered, “this is taking too long.” And it did seem longer than usual, but this was a professional simulacrum, not some homemade snapshot.
They were posed at the street end of the living room, next to the table piled with brightly wrapped gifts. This was Benjamin’s townhouse; she had barely moved in. All her treasures were still in shipping shells in the basement, except for the few pieces she’d managed to have unpacked: the oak refectory table and chairs, the sixteenth- century French armoire, the cherry wood chifforobe, the tea table with inlaid top, the silvered mirror over the fire surround. Of course, her antiques clashed with Benjamin’s contemporary — and rather common — decor, but he had promised her the whole house to redo as she saw fit. A whole house!
“How about a kiss?” whispered Benjamin.
Anne smiled but shook her head; there’d be plenty of time later for that sort of thing.
Suddenly, a head wearing wraparound goggles poked through the wall and quickly surveyed the room. “Hey, you,” it said to them.
“Is that our simographer?” Benjamin said.
The head spoke into a cheek mike, “This one’s the keeper,” and withdrew as suddenly as it had appeared.
“Did the simographer just pop her head in through the wall?” said Benjamin.
“I think so,” said Anne, though it made no sense.
“I’ll just see what’s up,” said Benjamin, breaking his pose. He went to the door but could not grasp its handle.
Music began to play outside, and Anne went to the window. Her view of the garden below was blocked by the blue-and-white-striped canopy they had rented, but she could clearly hear the clink of flatware on china, laughter, and the musicians playing a waltz. “They’re starting without us,” she said, happily amazed.
“They’re just warming up,” said Benjamin.
“No, they’re not. That’s the first waltz. I picked it myself.”
“So let’s waltz,” Benjamin said and reached for her. But his arms passed through her in a flash of pixelated noise. He frowned and examined his hands.
Anne hardly noticed. Nothing could diminish her happiness. She was drawn to the table of wedding gifts. Of all the gifts, there was only one — a long flat box in flecked silver wrapping — that she was most keen to open. It was from Great Uncle Karl. When it came down to it, Anne was both the easiest and the hardest person to shop for. While everyone knew of her passion for antiques, few had the means or expertise to buy one. She reached for Karl’s package, but her hand passed right through it.
That it
“Ooooh,” said Aunt Jennifer, comparing the identical wedding couples, identical but for the goggles. It made Anne uncomfortable that the other Anne should be wearing goggles while she wasn’t. And the other Benjamin acted a little drunk and wore a smudge of white frosting on his lapel.
“Wait a minute!” shouted Benjamin, waving his arms above his head. “I get it now.
The other Benjamin said, “Now that we have the obligatory epiphany out of the way,” and took a bow. The guests applauded.
Cathy, with Tom in tow, approached Anne. “Look what I caught,” she said and showed Anne the forget-me- not and buttercup bouquet. “I guess we know what
“Good for you,” she said, and offered her own clutch, which she still held, for comparison. The real one was wilting and a little ragged around the edges, with missing petals and sprigs, while hers was still fresh and pristine and would remain so eternally. “Here,” she said, “take mine, too, for double luck.” But when she tried to give Cathy the bouquet, she couldn’t let go of it. She opened her hand and discovered a seam where the clutch joined her palm. It was part of her.
The other Anne joined them. She was sagging a little. “Well,” she said to Anne.
“Indeed!” replied Anne.
“Turn around,” said the other Anne, twirling her hand, “I want to see.”
Anne was pleased to oblige. Then she said, “Your turn,” and the other Anne modeled for her, and she was delighted how the gown looked on her, though the goggles somewhat spoiled the effect.
“Oh,” said Cathy, “Look at that.”
“Look at what?” said Anne.
“Grandma’s vase,” said the other Anne. On the mantle beneath the mirror stood Anne’s most precious possession, a delicate vase cut from pellucid blue crystal. Anne’s great-great-great-grandmother had commissioned the Belgian master, Bollinger, the finest glassmaker in sixteenth-century Europe, to make it. Five hundred years later, it was as perfect as the day it was cut.
“Indeed!” said Anne, for the sim vase seemed to radiate an inner light. Through some trick or glitch of the simogram, it sparkled like a lake under moonlight, and, seeing it, Anne felt incandescent.
After a while, the other Anne said, “Well?” Implicit in this question was a whole standard set of questions that boiled down to — shall I keep you or delete you now? For sometimes a sim didn’t take. Sometimes a sim was cast while Anne was in a mood, and the sim suffered irreconcilable guilt or unassuagable despondency and had to be mercifully destroyed. It was better to do this immediately, or so all the Annes had agreed.
And Anne understood the urgency, what with the reception still in progress and the bride and groom, though frazzled, still wearing their finery. They might do another casting if necessary. “I’ll be okay,” Anne said. “In fact, if it’s always like this, I’ll be terrific.”
Anne, through the impenetrable goggles, studied her. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Sister,” said the other Anne. Anne addressed all her sims as “sister,” and now Anne, herself, was being so addressed. “Sister,” said the other Anne, “this has got to work out. I need you.”
“I know,” said Anne, “I’m your wedding day.”