by Nina Varela
And now Crier herself was wearing his black armband—why?
Stop thinking about her.
Ayla thought about Storme.
And that was, somehow, even worse. The pain still fresh and raw as it had been one week ago when she stood in the corridor and silently begged him to love her again, to tell her the truth, to stay. But she hadn’t been able to say any of that aloud and it didn’t matter because he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t been willing to.
In some ways, she’d spent the last week wishing he’d stayed dead, the way he’d been in her mind for so many years.
Storme. The boy she used to know, her twin, her bright-eyed brother, shining in her memories and then gone. Then: the man he had become, right hand to the leech queen, exploding back into Ayla’s life with all the force of a powder bomb and then, like a powder bomb, leaving nothing but wreckage behind.
How was it possible that she’d had him again but only for a day?
It was fitting that Crier had kidnapped her for a mourning tour. Ayla was in mourning. For Storme—and for her necklace, too. The last connection she had to her family, to her mother, and she’d lost it. But most of all, she mourned her former self, the girl who’d had the will of a never-ending fire. The girl who would burn and burn forever until she’d destroyed all the pain in the world.
Where had that girl gone?
She found herself touching the spot over her sternum where the locket usually rested, that old habit. Her neck felt lighter without the chain and pendant, but in a bad way, an aching way, as if someone had cut all her hair off. Lighter, but missing the weight.
Instead of touching the necklace, she reached into the pocket of her uniform and brushed her thumb over a different object: the key to the music room. It had become a stand-in talisman ever since she’d lost her necklace, something to rub between finger and thumb when she got restless. How embarrassing, that something from Crier—a gift—could be so calming. So grounding. She’d already used it several times in the past week to go somewhere quiet when she had a moment off work and needed a beat to think, to breathe, to be truly alone.
If she was being honest, she’d gone to the music room to think about Crier. It felt like if she thought about her around Benjy and the other servants, they’d immediately see it written all over her face.
Desire.
Longing.
Loneliness.
Curiosity.
Shame.
How she wanted to sleep in Crier’s bed again. Or—something. How she hadn’t slept as deeply in months, maybe years, as she had that night. How she hadn’t felt so safe since before that day. That was the power Crier seemed to have over her.
Stop thinking about her.
Why was it so hard?
Gods. The sooner she stole the compass from Kinok, the better. She just needed to get her hands on the compass, and then she’d have everything she needed to lead Rowan, Benjy, and the other rebels straight to the Iron Heart. She wouldn’t have to be Crier’s handmaiden anymore. She could finally get her revenge, and then run. Leave the palace and never look back.
Ayla realized she was gripping the music room key so tight that the sharp points were digging painfully into her palm. She let go, placing both hands on her lap. Refusing still to look at Crier. Their knees were touching. It wasn’t even skin-to-skin contact; Ayla was wearing her uniform pants and Crier a long black mourning gown. So why was it affecting Ayla so much?
Those foolish, stolen moments in the tide pool, cold water and black night and Crier’s skin turned silver in the moonlight. The story of the princess and the hare and how Crier’s voice had started out quiet, unsure, but grew stronger as she told the story. Ayla had wanted to say, Tell me another. Another. She’d wanted to say, Don’t stop.
The tide pool. Crier’s bed. Moonlight again. Soft and warm, the smell of Crier everywhere, on the pillows and the blankets. When Ayla had turned her face into the pillow and breathed in, Crier filled her lungs. It should have felt like poison. It didn’t. She should be lying awake at night thinking of nothing but sliding a blade into Crier’s heart. She wasn’t. Instead she thought of: Crier’s odd, awkward affection, her questions, her endless curiosity—sweet, often naive, almost childlike, but always earnest, always fascinated by whatever answers Ayla was willing to give.
Ayla glanced at Crier out of the corner of her eye. Crier was staring out the other window, face turned away from Ayla. The curtains were drawn; a thin strip of grayish sunlight bisected her face, one half in light and the other in shadow. One eye glinting gold, the other a deep brown. She was beautiful. It was perhaps a terrible thing to admit, but Ayla couldn’t help it. Crier was beautiful. Created to be beautiful, but it was more than that; more than perfect bone structure and symmetrical features and flawless brown skin. It was the way her eyes lit up with interest, the way her fingers were always so careful, almost reverent, as she flipped the pages of a book. The way she held absolutely still sometimes, like a deer in the woods, so still that Ayla wanted to touch her, reach out and touch her face to make sure she was still real.
“I know you’re looking at me,” Crier said, and Ayla looked away so quickly that she nearly knocked her head against the carriage window. “I can tell. I can always tell.”
“No you can’t,” Ayla muttered, cheeks hot.
Crier raised an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”
Ayla didn’t answer. Instead, she let her gaze drop from Crier’s face to the black band on her arm, a silent question. Challenge for a challenge.
“Ah,” said Crier. “Yes. I . . . made a bargain. With my father.” She touched the armband, rubbing the thick black fabric between her fingers. Her jaw tightened. “Didn’t you wonder why Kinok released you so quickly?”
“I thought it was because he realized I’m useless to him,” Ayla said weakly. Her stomach hurt, turning over with something she refused to admit was gratitude. Or guilt. “I thought I just didn’t have what he was looking for.”
“You didn’t. But I did.”
“What? What did you give him? What did you tell him?” Ayla leaned forward, heart thumping. “Crier, what did you do?” Because of me?
“What I gave him wasn’t information. It was power.” Crier almost smiled, thin and humorless, and let go of the armband. Folded her hands back in her lap, and just like that she looked like a painting, a portrait, light and color and perfection captured, if only for a moment. “Power over me. His mark on my arm. My endorsement. But—only in show.”
Ayla let out a breath. “So you didn’t actually join him.”
“No,” said Crier, surprised. Like it had never even occurred to her that Ayla might be confused, might doubt her motives or beliefs. “I would never. But please understand. I didn’t know what he was going to do to you. I was . . . concerned. I wanted to get you—away from him.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Ayla said fiercely.
“Was I supposed to let you rot away down there? Or worse?”
“No, but you shouldn’t have given him that. He’s always three steps ahead. You can bet that he’s already planning how he’s going to use this, use your fake support—”
“I know that,” said Crier.
“So why? Why would you risk that?”
Again, surprise. “Because I knew it was the only way he would let you stay. With me.”
Ayla flopped back against the velvet seat of the carriage, furious all over again. “You shouldn’t have,” she hissed. “It was reckless, it was dangerous, it was—”
“Worth it,” said Crier. Her eyes, out of the direct sunlight and both that deep, human brown, were fixed on Ayla’s face. She looked calm everywhere except her hands, which were clenched tight in her lap.
In the tiny space of the carriage, it was too much.
Ayla curled up in a ball in the corner of the seat so that not even her knees could touch Crier, and she spent the rest of the journey staring sightlessly out the window, watching the dead yellow hills slide by, not e
ven trying to not think about Crier, and the ache yawning wide inside her chest.
19
Foer’s estate was smaller than the sovereign’s, nestled in the dip of a valley. As was common in the South, the buildings were made from granite and dark, shining wood, the wooden rooftops curving up sharply toward the sky. The grounds were composed mainly of fields and horse pastures, a few orchards. No gardens—that was always the first thing Crier missed whenever she’d visited Rosi here over the years. The gardens and the sea air.
Their party descended slowly into the valley, the sun sinking behind them. Crier drew back the velvet curtains and peered out at the landscape: the hillsides were grass and rough outcroppings of gray stone, furred with brambles.
“Have you been here before?” said Ayla, breaking the silence so abruptly that Crier startled a little.
“Yes,” she said, refusing to acknowledge the slight amusement on Ayla’s face. “A few times. Rosi is my closest companion. Has always been.”
“Really?”
“Well.” Crier thought about it. “Yes. Comparatively.”
Ayla seemed to mull that over. “You don’t have very many companions.”
“No. Not many.”
Somewhere in the distance, horns sounded. One of her men announcing their arrival. Crier smoothed her skirts, her hair. She tried to fix her expression into something appropriately somber. It wasn’t hard—she was not exactly in high spirits—but she always felt extra self-conscious around Rosi, extra performative. “Does my face look all right?” she found herself asking Ayla.
Ayla raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean, all right?”
“I don’t know,” Crier muttered. “Never mind. It was a foolish thing to ask.”
She felt Ayla’s eyes on her and refused to look up. She stared at her own hands in her lap, light brown against the midnight black of her dress.
“It does,” said Ayla almost begrudgingly. “Look all right, I mean.”
Crier’s eyes widened in surprise, but before she got a chance to reply, the carriage was rattling to a stop. She heard the sound of her driver leaping from his seat, his bootsteps in the scrubby grass, the horses whuffing softly to each other. They had arrived.
“Lady Crier,” said the driver; a moment later the carriage door opened and she was helped down. She blinked, eyes adjusting instantly to the half-light of evening in the valley. Behind her, Ayla hopped down to the ground and cursed under her breath when she landed hard. Crier bit back a completely inappropriate smile.
“Lady Crier!” Rosi’s voice cut through the evening like a knife through velvet. She was standing at the main entrance of the manor, flanked by servants and her own handmaiden. Behind her, the manor house was a mass of dark stone against the hills, windows glowing with lantern light. “Lady Crier, are you alone?”
“The sovereign sends his condolences,” said Crier as she and Ayla approached the manor entrance. “He is visiting the estates of Councilmembers Laone and Shasta, but not out of lack of respect or grief for you or Lord Foer. I requested to visit you alone—not as the sovereign’s heir but as a friend.” She joined Rosi in front of the massive double doors and inclined her head, hands clasped in front of her chest. “I am truly sorry for your loss. The sovereign will find out who did this, and—and there will be justice.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Rosi.
Like Crier, she was dressed in a black mourning gown. But that was the only familiar thing about her. Crier tried not to stare, but now that she was seeing Rosi up close, it was obvious that there was something very, very wrong. Something had changed since she’d last seen her, at the engagement ball back at the palace. In less than a month, Rosi had become manic, pupils dilated, lips almost blue—and nearly skeletal. It was like there was something living inside her, sucking the life from her bones. Her collarbones jutted out above the neckline of her gown; her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken into the sockets. When she spoke, Crier saw that it wasn’t just her lips that were stained blue-black—it was also her teeth and tongue. It looked like she’d been drinking black ink.
But what Crier couldn’t stop looking at—what frightened her most—were Rosi’s veins. They stood out against her temples, her neck, the bones of her hands, and they were stark black.
“Rosi,” Crier said, hushed. “Rosi, are you—are you well?”
It was a foolish question, considering the circumstances, but Rosi didn’t say anything about Foer. She laughed, high-pitched and almost hysterical. “I’m well, my lady. Come, come inside. Bring the little human pet, too. Who knows what would happen if we left her all alone in the dark?”
Inside, Rosi led Crier and Ayla to a lavish sitting room, all high windows and velvet curtains and deep-blue divans, a piano, a tray of liquid heartstone already waiting for them. Crier’s blood yearned for it—she hadn’t eaten all day, and she was definitely feeling the effects.
“The pet can wait outside the door,” Rosi said flippantly.
Crier wanted to argue but knew it would just be suspicious. She nodded at Ayla, apologetic, and forced herself not to wince when Rosi shut the sitting room door in Ayla’s face.
Rosi and Crier took their seats on the divan. Rosi poured a cup of liquid heartstone for Crier but took none herself. Crier remembered the words from her letter: I haven’t touched heartstone in weeks.
She’d been taking the black dust instead.
The Nightshade.
Crier took a long sip of tea, feeling it spread through her like molten gold, the strength returning to her limbs. Then she set the teacup down and turned to Rosi. “I am truly sorry for your loss, my friend. We all grieve for Foer.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Rosi. Gods, she couldn’t even meet Crier’s eyes for more than a second before her gaze skittered away.
“Please, if there is anything I can do, anything my father can do . . .”
“Foer’s death really is a shame,” Rosi sighed, seeming not to hear Crier. She didn’t seem saddened or weighted down by the grief, however. And perhaps that was to be expected. Automae didn’t suffer over death the way humans did. “Do you know how it happened? Do you know how he was found?” She leaned closer. “His head was severed. You probably guessed that. I’m told it was a clean wound. Well. As clean as possible. Sawing through the spinal cord’s a nasty business. But it was—professional. Not some human with an ax. Whoever did it used a butcher’s blade. Do you know how he was found?”
“Rosi,” said Crier, feeling sick, “Rosi, you don’t need to tell me this.”
“He was found when his blood soaked through the floorboards. He wasn’t in the house, you know. He was in the stables. On the upper level, tending to the horse tack. He likes to oil the saddles himself. He was killed there, and his blood soaked through everything. Even started dripping from the rafters like violet rain.” She barked a laugh. “Dripped directly onto a stableboy’s head. That’s when he started screaming.”
Crier could do nothing but stare at her.
“Anyway,” Rosi went on. “Before all that, he was working with Kinok on something very important. And I know they were almost done.”
“Something very important?” Crier repeated hollowly. She remembered Rosi’s letter, her mentions of Foer and Kinok working together, but still wasn’t sure what that meant.
“Top secret.” Rosi nodded, widening her eyes. She obviously enjoyed knowing something Crier didn’t. “I’m surprised the Scyre didn’t tell you about it, my lady.”
“Foer must have trusted you a lot,” Crier said, ignoring the jab. “You must have been very precious to him.”
“I was,” said Rosi. “He told me everything. He was vital to ARM, you know. Absolutely vital.”
“I know he was,” said Crier. “Kinok told me the same thing, about how important Foer was. And you, of course.”
“Did he really?”
“Oh, many times.” She didn’t mean it, but she knew the words Rosi wanted to hear.
Rosi lowered
her voice, conspiratorial. “Foer was the only one the Scyre trusted to investigate Thomas Wren. All those Red Hands in ARM, and he trusted Foer. No offense meant, of course, my lady.”
“None taken,” Crier assured her. “Of course he trusted Foer the most. Who else could do what he did?” She was fishing. What did Rosi really know?
“Nobody,” Rosi said. “Nobody else has Foer’s connections with the Midwives.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Crier. “And that’s why Kinok chose Foer to—investigate Wren.” She was trying to piece it together but couldn’t—what exactly did his research on Wren have to do with the Midwives? It must be something about Design, something about Wren’s original Designs for Automae and, perhaps, how the Midwives might improve upon it.
She thought of the page of notes she’d slipped from Kinok’s book, the night of the Reaper’s Moon. How they’d revealed Wren’s secret connections to a woman only called H.
“Mm.” Rosi leaned forward even closer. “Do you want to know what Foer discovered, my lady?”
Crier feigned uncertainty, trying not to look too eager. She didn’t want to do anything that would make Rosi suspicious. “Should you really tell me? If it’s top secret?”
“You’re Scyre Kinok’s fiancée,” said Rosi. “You’re bound to him. Spilling his secrets would bring harm to you and the sovereign as well.” Her hands were shaking where they were clasped in her lap. “Besides, I—I want to give you a token of my own trust, my lady. So you remember how close we are, and how important I am to Scyre Kinok and ARM.”
“You’re vital,” Crier murmured. “Vital to him. To ARM.”
Rosi sighed happily. “Oh, good.”
“So . . . Thomas Wren . . . ?”
“I don’t know the exact details,” Rosi said. “But I do know that the Scyre had Foer looking into Wren’s research. All his collaborators, really anyone he ever spoke to. And Foer discovered that Thomas Wren didn’t Make the first Automa at all. Did you ever know such a thing? He traced Wren’s work back to someone else entirely—a peasant woman. She created our Kind, not him.”