the guise of sun apples from the palace.”
Ayla nodded. “And as for Faye . . .” She thought again of the girl’s fractured mind, the terror in her eyes, something more than, worse than, simple grief. “She must have done something to get on Kinok’s bad side—maybe she even tried to warn us, or escape. So he . . .” Her voice felt flimsy in her throat, but she forced out the rest: “Killed her sister. Killed Luna. And now he must be using her as a pawn. I can’t imagine she’s very useful—she seems half mad. But she could still deliver letters, maybe. Simple messages. She’s probably too terrified to even think of disobeying him.”
“Ayla,” Crier said softly. In the dim light of the private room, the gold of her eyes looked almost green, like the feathers.
Ayla cleared her throat. “What I don’t understand is what this black dust is, or why it’s so important to Automae.”
Crier sat down on the bed. “He showed me some of his experiments, a few days back. It seems he’s been trying to find—to create—a replacement for heartstone. That’s all part of what ‘anti-reliance’ means to him. He wants us to be invulnerable. As for black dust, well. I guess he’s finally succeeded.”
Invulnerable. Ayla knew what that meant. Invulnerable to human attack. For years, the rebellion had sought to expose the trade routes to the Iron Heart, and perhaps he feared they were getting closer, knew they wanted to destroy the Iron Heart. As always, he knew everything and was one step ahead.
If Automae didn’t need heartstone anymore, they wouldn’t need the Iron Heart. Which meant the entire focus of the rebellion would have been a waste. And there’d be no way to take down Automae anymore. No more weak spot.
“We have to find out who he’s working with,” Ayla said. “If we can get a list of all the people Faye sent ‘sun apples’ to, under your father’s name, we’ll have our list of Kinok’s conspirators.”
“Ayla, that’s—that’s a very good idea, actually,” Crier said, standing up and grasping Ayla’s hand. “Will you help me, then?”
Ayla yanked her hand away, instinctive.
Crier’s mouth twisted. “Ayla.”
“Let’s deal with these feathers,” said Ayla, not meeting her eyes. “We should clean them up before a servant comes in and—”
“Ayla,” Crier said again, softer this time. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For everything. For—for being so harsh with you, for pushing you against the door—I didn’t realize my strength—I—”
“You’re an Automa. It’s your nature to overpower.”
Crier looked as if she’d been slapped.
For some reason, the hurt on Crier’s face enraged Ayla. How dare she express sorrow or remorse now? Her Kind had been treating humans horribly, had been responsible for so much death and suffering, ever since the War. And now she wanted forgiveness, she wanted Ayla to absolve her, not for the atrocities but for a shove?
There would be no forgiveness. Not here. Not today. And not ever.
Tenderly, cautiously, Crier lifted Ayla’s chin so that she was forced once again to look into her eyes. A quicksilver touch, two fingers at Ayla’s jaw, there and gone.
“We are equals, Ayla,” she said. “We should be—we should be allies.” She took an odd little breath, lips parting, a flower opening at dawn. “We should be friends.”
Ayla was honestly speechless for a moment. “Friends?” Her voice shook. “I’m your handmaiden. Your servant. And even if I wasn’t, I’m human. Your people kill mine for fun.” She felt like an open flame, she felt like she could devour anything she touched; it had been a long time since she was this angry. It felt almost good to return here, like coming home. This fire was her home, the element she thrived in—Crier’s words were the wind, awakening her, turning her into something blazing and burning.
And despite herself, despite her fury, her hatred, the heat running through her—or perhaps because of all those—Ayla felt her heart pounding harder than it ever had before.
“We are more alike than not,” Crier said quietly, insistently. She seemed to search for something in Ayla’s face, gaze flicking over Ayla’s wide eyes, her brows, the half snarl of her mouth.
“We’re not,” Ayla choked out, wanting to silence Crier, wanting everything to be different. Because part of her, the center of that angry flame, knew exactly what Crier was saying.
Knew what Crier was feeling.
This thing that had been rising between them for weeks now. In the tide pool, in Crier’s bed. In the songs rough against her throat and