by Nina Varela
Ayla looked back at the wide-open space in the middle of the ballroom. The surface of the marble floor was gleaming and flawless. “With all due respect, hasn’t it already been—?”
“We always polish it twice,” said the housemaid, still smirking. “You’ll find the supplies over there already. Be quick about it, will you? Shouldn’t take more than an hour.” And with that she turned on her heel and flounced away.
Ayla gritted her teeth and headed over to the edge of the dance floor. She almost laughed when she saw the “supplies” the housemaid had left her: a bucket of soapy water and a single cloth. There was no way that she’d be able to do this in an hour. The dance floor was huge, big enough to hold a hundred turning couples, and she’d be scrubbing it on her knees. This wasn’t a chore. It was an exercise in public humiliation.
But asking for help would make it so much worse, that much Ayla knew. So she pushed up her sleeves and got to work.
She’d only managed to scrub maybe a six-by-six-foot area when she nearly ran her cloth right over a pair of shoes. Ayla sat back on her heels and looked up to find Nessa standing over her, hands on her hips. Ayla didn’t know how she’d approached so quietly, almost like an Automa. She knew Nessa, of course. All of the servants reported to her. But as head servant, Nessa spent most of her time inside the palace, and rarely did Ayla have to actually work beneath her. The woman was tall, commanding, and slightly hunched, encumbered with the months-old child strapped to her chest all day. She was the only servant Ayla knew to have had a child.
Nessa looked deeply unimpressed.
Ayla wiped the sweat off her forehead. “Hello, ma’am.”
“You’re dragging your own dirty shoes through the clean parts,” Nessa said, pointing.
Ayla looked back—and sure enough, there were streaks of dirt on the floor she’d just scrubbed. She groaned out loud, tossed the cloth aside, and began to tug off her shoes. “My apologies, ma’am,” she mumbled.
Nessa sighed. And then she knelt down to join Ayla on the floor, pulling her own rag out of the pocket of her uniform and dunking it in the soapy water. Ayla stared at the top of her baby’s head, through the sling, hanging dangerously low as Nessa scrubbed.
“What’re you looking at, girl,” Nessa said, and then followed Ayla’s gaze. She snorted. “Gods, it’s like you’ve never seen a baby before. Go on, keep staring, will you? I’m sure you don’t have better things to do.”
“The guards don’t mind?” Ayla asked.
“Lily’s quiet. Never makes a fuss.”
They worked together in silence for a while, side by side on the floor. Then finally Ayla couldn’t help but blurt out, “Is it true that you married Thom?”
Nessa gave her an incredulous look. “Do you go around sticking your nose into everyone’s business, or just mine?” At Ayla’s silence, she rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course it’s true. What a stupid rumor that would be.”
“But—why?”
Another look. “The same reason I’ve got Lily, idiot. Because I love him.”
That made even less sense to Ayla. But Nessa went right back to scrubbing, and Ayla knew she’d already pushed too much, so she held her tongue. She spent the rest of the morning like that, scrubbing in silence, until her knees were numb and her arms ached horribly.
Already the sovereign’s guests were pouring in; Ayla kept catching glimpses, whenever she stood up to wring out her cloth and was able to peek out the second-story windows overlooking the courtyard. Their throats and wrists and ears were heavy with gold. They were arriving on horseback, in gilded caravans, in horse-drawn carriages. And then she saw it: a black uniform among all the red-uniformed servants. The colors of a Scyre.
Her skin prickled. She didn’t like being locked up in this cold palace with so many leeches.
That evening, Ayla was ordered to fetch Crier’s ball gown from the seamstress. Feet aching from walking on flagstones all day instead of softer dirt, she dragged herself down to the underground level where the housemaids, laundry maids, and seamstresses did most of their work. All she wanted to do was sleep. For years. Curl up right here on the cold flagstones, hide herself in the shadows, sleep for a decade. It was the kind of tired that left her head all foggy and tipsy and slow. She’d imagined that housework would be easier than field work, but she’d underestimated not just the quantity of work but the sheer exhaustion of being constantly watched and monitored, of controlling her expression and stifling any suggestion of that fatigue—a single yawn could get her kicked out of the palace for good.
That was why, when she stepped into the washing room, she stopped dead in the doorway. She genuinely thought she was dreaming, just for a moment.
Because there was Faye bent over one of the massive tubs of steaming, soapy water. Luna’s sister. The one everyone in the market had gossiped about. The one who hadn’t been seen since Luna’s transgression—whatever it was—and subsequent murder by the leeches.
Faye was gripping a long wooden paddle, stirring the linens and the discarded clothes, her face pink and sweaty from the heat.
The last time she’d seen Faye, it was noon and the sun was beating down on their heads and Faye was on the ground, covered in dust, screaming in the raw and wordless way of tortured animals. Automa soldiers kicked her in the belly and she didn’t stop screaming. Sometimes, her lips formed the word Luna. But it was so drawn out, so wrecked with terror and anguish, that it didn’t sound like her sister’s name at all.
A white dress, fluttering in the breeze.
And somehow, she was still alive. She was here, in the palace, stirring a tub full of linens. She didn’t look injured. No missing limbs, no scars on the side of her face that Ayla could see. The only difference was that the Faye of one month ago had kept her hair long, always twisted into a knot at the back of her head. This Faye’s hair was cropped short, cut so messily in places that bits of pale scalp showed through.
But she was alive.
Faye was alive.
“Faye,” Ayla said helplessly. The second she made noise, Faye startled and dropped the wooden paddle; she whirled around to face Ayla, her eyes huge. The door closed behind Ayla. They were alone together. “Faye, where have you been? I thought you were—”
“Do not say my name,” said Faye.
“—What?”
“Do not. Say my name.” Faye cocked her head to one side, her eyes fixed on Ayla. She hadn’t yet blinked. She had an oddly precise way of speaking, her words sharp even though her voice was quiet. “That is not. My name. Anymore. Don’t say it. Do not say it. Who are you?”
“What do you mean?” said Ayla. “I’m—I’m Ayla. You know me. Remember? I’m a friend of Rowan’s. I didn’t know you were alive. I swear, I would’ve found you. Rowan didn’t know either. We thought they’d taken you away.”
Faye laughed.
Or shrieked.
“Taken me away,” she repeated. “Taken me away. No. No, not quite. Should have, though. Deserved it. Wasn’t her. Wasn’t her, wasn’t her.”
Her eyes were the kind of wild Ayla had seen before. Usually, you saw those eyes in graveyards, or at executions, or at the burnings. Ayla felt the first real prickle of unease along her spine. She’d heard of Hesod taking human servants into the palace to pay off debts, even going so far as cutting them off from their families, but hadn’t Luna’s death been punishment enough?
“What wasn’t her?” she asked. “Are you talking about Luna?”
“Don’t say her name,” Faye hissed. Her teeth were bared.
“What did she do?” Ayla demanded. Something felt so wrong. “What wasn’t Luna? What did she do?”
“The apples,” Faye mumbled, clutching at her own hair. “The apples, the apples—”
And she screamed at the top of her lungs, the sound bouncing and echoing around the tiny washing room, and bolted forward quick as an Automa—one second she was halfway across the room, the next she was right in front of Ayla, her chest heaving. Ayla leape
d backward, drawing the bag of linens up in front of her like some sort of pathetic shield, but it was too late. “Don’t touch her!” Faye shrieked. “Don’t touch my sister!” And she lashed out blindly with one arm, her hand catching Ayla’s nose. Ayla staggered back, pain spiking where she’d been struck. When she reached up to touch her face, her fingers came away red and she could feel the hot sticky drip of blood from her nostrils.
“I said don’t touch her,” Faye rasped, shaking her head, flinging droplets of sweat. “Don’t touch her, don’t touch her, take me instead, don’t touch her don’t touch her don’t touch her no no no no no NO—” Her voice broke and she backed away, first slowly and then nearly tripping over her feet. She hit one of the tubs, boiling water sloshing over the opposite side, a paddle clattering to the floor, and then she howled and ran out of the washing room, into the swallowing dark of the corridor outside. Cool air rushed into the smelly, humid washing room.
Shaking, Ayla tilted her head back to stop the blood flow. Her nose hurt, but not enough to be broken. Just a low twinge pulsing along with the beat of her heart, a sick reminder of Faye’s—what? Grief? Madness? Both?
The apples, the apples.
“Here,” said someone from behind her, and she jolted—but it was only Nessa standing in the doorway. Her baby was still strapped to her body, and she was holding out a handkerchief, scrutinizing Ayla with her beady eyes. “For the blood,” she said. “You’re lucky the lady has been far too busy greeting guests today to bother with you.”
“I am fortunate,” Ayla mumbled, and began to blot clumsily at her nose.
Nessa sniffed. “In the future, stay away from that girl. She’s not well and she never will be. Gods only know why she’s kept around.”
Gods only know, indeed.
Ayla nodded. “Yes’m.”
Nessa turned on her heel and headed in the direction Faye had run, and Ayla was alone with her thoughts, the steaming baths, the blood in her mouth. The memory of Faye’s mad eyes.
The day had been agonizingly long. All Ayla wanted to do after scrubbing the floors and desperately trying to scrub the image of Faye’s terrified face from her thoughts was to fall flat on a bed and never wake up. Her nose ached, and Nessa’s kerchief still sat in her pocket, like evidence.
Instead, she had been summoned to Crier’s chambers.
“Sing,” Crier commanded. They were in one of the smaller rooms off her bedchamber, and Ayla had just dumped a heavy, scalding pot of water into the freestanding bath. Her arms ached as she watched the water slosh along the slick white porcelain.
“My lady?” said Ayla.
“Malwin sang to me often,” said Crier, beginning to undo the buttons along her sleeve. “It was pleasing. I want you to sing for me as well.”
“I—I’m very unpracticed, my lady,” Ayla tried. It was true. She hadn’t sung in years, not outside her own head. The act of singing was so mired in memory: her mother’s voice singing lullabies and sea shanties, her father joining in, a duet like a nightingale accompanied by the deep, low rush of the ocean itself. Little Ayla and Storme laughing, singing along, dancing clumsily in front of the hearth fire. No. Ayla did not want to sing.
But she remembered a time in the market when visiting Automa officials were touring the town. Hesod had approached a man and a woman and told them to dance. The woman, so filled with fear, had burst into tears. But they’d complied. Because to refuse would mean a swift punishment. And so the man had swung his sobbing partner in circles, their movement unnatural and jerky, like dolls being whipped around by a cruel child. Ayla stared at Crier now; it seemed the daughter was just like the father.
“Then consider this your practice,” Crier said.
So, Ayla sang.
She sang an old folk song as she poured rose-scented oil into Crier’s bath, averting her gaze while her mistress undressed and sank into it, lathering soap along her legs. She sang as she brushed and oiled Crier’s dark hair afterward, felt its surprising softness, noticing, too, the smooth perfection of her Made skin, the way the collarbones formed an open V below her delicate chin.
The base of her skull. The soft skin between each rib. The curve of her throat.
If she had a knife right now, she could have killed Crier ten times over.
But she couldn’t do that. Not today. Not yet.
Her unused voice was weak and breathy and kept cracking in odd places, although the more she sang the stronger it got, as if the songs themselves had woken from a long sleep. At first, she’d planned to sing only one song, but she found herself unable to stop. It kept her calm, even as her imagination slipped beneath the door and swirled silently through the halls of the palace like smoke, mapping out a plan. While Crier was otherwise occupied with tonight’s party, Ayla would finally have a chance to begin her mission.
After the bath and the hair, she pulled down the new dress from where she’d hung it. It was the most ridiculously complicated poof of a ball gown she’d ever seen. It was pale silver, with an embroidered train and a skirt like a wide bell, and the bodice had to be laced up in back, closed around Crier’s body like a hunter’s trap. The only upside, Ayla thought as she tied what must’ve been the thousandth pair of tiny laces, was that Crier looked about as miserable as Ayla felt. She was almost fidgety, eyes darting around her bedchamber, fingers twitching.
Her gaze kept catching on Ayla’s throat. The spot where her necklace lay beneath the collar of her handmaiden’s uniform. Once again, Ayla wanted to snap at her: I know you saw it. Wanted to say she couldn’t be toyed with. That it didn’t matter if Crier punished her now or dragged it on for weeks. It would all end the same way.
Ayla tugged at the laces harder than was necessary.
Two servants had carried in a big mirror for the purpose of preparing Crier for the ball. Crier was standing right in front of it, Ayla behind her, and when Ayla looked up, her eyes met Crier’s in the reflection.
She paused with the laces. Braced herself for an order.
“Why do humans still marry?” asked Crier.
“What?” Surely she’d misheard.
“In the past,” Crier said haltingly, like she was still working it through in her head. “I know your marriage customs were similar to ours. Largely for political or strategic gain, especially among the more influential bloodlines.”
“Yes,” said Ayla, and refrained from adding, Your customs are similar because your entire culture was stolen from ours. Because you have no history or culture of your own.
“But last spring, a serving boy married one of my father’s stableboys. And the year before, I know Nessa courted Thom from the orchards. None of them hold any significant status. So—”
“How do you know about that?” Ayla demanded, letting her hands fall away from the laces. She stared at Crier’s reflection, unable to keep the surprise off her own face. Ayla and Nessa weren’t friends, by any means, but Ayla felt protective of any of the servants’ secrets. Marriage among servants wasn’t illegal, but you never knew when the laws might change, or what ways the Automae would think of next to punish their own staff, to send ripples of fear among the humans.
Crier cocked her head. “The boys married at midnight on the bluffs. There was a partial eclipse that night and I wished to observe it from higher ground. I overheard them. Kinok informed me about Nessa and Thom.”
Ayla’s stomach dropped.
How in all the hells did Kinok find out? Why would he even care? Why would he tell Crier?
“So, if there is nothing to gain—no political influence, strategic advantage, or division of property—then why do humans marry?” Crier was peering at Ayla in the mirror, her eyes wide and curious, her body unnaturally still. She’d done this a few times, Ayla had noticed—so focused on one particular thing that she apparently forgot to play up the tiny movements that made her look more human: breathing, blinking, shifting, fiddling with something. Facial expressions, sometimes. Instead, she would just stand there, tall and frozen,
a creature carved from stone.
“I don’t know if I’m the person to ask about that,” said Ayla.
“But you are my handmaiden,” said Crier with a slight air of triumph, “and you are supposed to attend to my needs. What I need is an answer.”
Ayla kept her eyes firmly on the laces beneath her hands, refused to meet Crier’s gaze in the mirror. It was getting darker outside the windows, the sky purple with dusk. They didn’t have much time before Crier was supposed to make her entrance at the party, and Ayla itched for the brief freedom she knew tonight would bring.
“Supposedly, we marry for love,” Ayla said at last. The word was a bitter seed on her tongue. She’d never been in love before. Not like that. But she’d felt love—for her family.
Crier frowned. “That seems . . . ill-advised.”
“Agreed.”
Crier’s voice was softer now, barely audible. “That seems like it could end in a great deal of suffering.”
What would you know about suffering?
Ayla tugged at the second to last pair of laces, at the very top of Crier’s spine. “Almost done.” She was in a hurry now, the eagerness leaping up inside her like a flame.
Tonight, when the entire palace—Automae and servants alike—was preoccupied with the engagement ball, Ayla would be slipping down below the grand ballroom to the lower levels, where she’d learned that Kinok’s quarters were. She would be sifting through his possessions, his correspondence, anything she could find. Rowan had been clear. Look for a map or a ledger of heartstone trade. Maybe a diagram of the Heart itself, if such a thing existed. She could only read a handful of words, but Benjy had once showed her the names of council members, written them out for her in the dirt and then swept them away with one hand. She’d forgotten most of them, but she could still picture some of them, the specific shapes of each letter. She knew Ellios, Burn, Markus. Kita. Thaddian. She knew Automa; she knew human; she knew rebel. She knew heart.
She might not get it all tonight, but eventually, she would find something. She’d learn Kinok’s secrets. She’d find out what he knew of the Iron Heart, how to infiltrate and destroy it. She’d find the information that would change everything, information that could destroy the Automae in one fell swoop. That could end their reign forever. Freedom for all of humanity.