catch flies and catches a butterfly instead, what does the spider do?”
Benjy stayed silent.
“She eats the butterfly,” said Ayla.
21
The necklace felt heavier than usual in Crier’s hands that night. As if every time she fell into it, she left a part of herself behind. A part of herself—and a part of Ayla, now. The forest clearing was green and vibrant in Crier’s mind, imprinted on the insides of her eyelids: the sunlight, the rustling branches, the laughing girl, the laughing boy who swept her up and held her tight. The easy intimacy between them, the way love glowed in their eyes and in their smiles. What a pure, crystalline memory. Once secret, now shared.
It had been a long day.
Crier had spent the morning sifting through endless shipment records. Her father had returned a day early from his portion of the “mourning tour,” full of righteous anger over the growth of the rebellion in the rural lands, and Kinok had expressed only polite relief in the fact that she had survived an attack on her carriage. She didn’t tell them the rest: that she had watched a rebel murdered right before her eyes.
Had watched the way that single act had turned Ayla back into a hardened shell, cold and armored with hate. Crier couldn’t get that image out of her mind, the pure hatred on Ayla’s face, the stiff set of her body, a defense mechanism, stay away—she couldn’t stop thinking of it, even as it tore at the memories of their kiss.
So she occupied herself with the list of shipments.
There were a lot of Red Hands on that list.
Betrayal tasted like metal on her tongue. In a surge of anger (how dare they call themselves Red Hands, how dare they claim to serve the council, the nation of Zulla, and all the while—) Crier had included one last piece of information in her newest letter to Junn.
Friend—
Fear blossoms like a fed garden. I have reason to believe—I suspect strongly—that Wolf is responsible for the disappearance of a Red Hen. The Wolf’s reach is wide and its greed is strong.
I have a way to track down those who support the Wolf, however. The pack that protects him and works with him. The Wolf’s paws leave traces of darkness behind. Traces we can follow.
Make no mistake: Wolf is a predator, a threat to all of Zulla. Please, help me stop him—before spring comes. A gathering in late winter is the perfect time to pluck snow blossoms—to be rid of the weeds.
—Fox
In Rabu, it was tradition to fill the hall with white flowers to celebrate the marriage of two Automae. And every single Red Hand would attend her wedding. Every single Red Hand—the ones still alive, anyway—would be there. All of them gathered in one place.
Queen Junn would read between the lines.
A big part of her was terrified about what Junn might do—but an even bigger part was ruled by her own anger, her sour-bile disappointment in the leaders she had admired for so long.
It felt huge and terrible, sending the letter off with the courier, knowing it was too late to change her own words, to scratch them out. Too late to take any of it back. Crier tried not to think about the Red Hands who had already died at Queen Junn’s quick and merciless hand. She had no illusions about the queen’s methods, and none of them were gentle or kind.
Would Crier’s wedding be a bloodbath?
Could her world really change in a single day?
Yes, something inside her whispered. No matter what: yes.
And it was the only way, she told herself firmly. There was no way she could actually marry Kinok. Especially not now—not after the kiss. Not after she knew the truth about herself.
That she was capable of the most human feeling of all.
That she loved Ayla.
The thought was like a bell resonating inside her, echoing and echoing and echoing. She didn’t know how it was possible—it had to be the result of her Flaw. But it was true.
Besides, if she married Kinok, even if he wasn’t the killer she suspected him to be, he would always have absolute control over her. She would never, ever be free. She’d become another part of his plans. We won’t need humans at all.
The only way to survive was to put a stop to Kinok’s plans before they advanced any further—to swipe her arm across the chessboard and knock all the pieces to the floor.
There would be deaths. Automa deaths.
But Crier would live.