few resources, had been one of his greatest challenges during the course of Crier’s lifetime.
Even in wild Tarreen, Hesod had attempted to preserve the humans’ way of life wherever possible. He fostered a genuine appreciation for their food, their music, their strange ceremonies; he found all of it very entertaining, and Hesod loved to be entertained. His dedication was admirable—especially because many other Automae, Kinok included, did not regard human culture with such an open mind. Though perhaps Kinok was more intensely anticohabitation than most because, in addition to being a former Watcher of the Iron Heart, he was a Scyre: part of an elite guild that studied the Four Pillars in order to further advance Automakind.
Crier tried to keep her eyes on her hands, her lap, her empty, red-rimmed teacup, but she could not help stealing another glance at the man who was to become her husband.
Kinok was her future, and her future was dressed in fine black brocade. The crest of the Iron Heart flashed at his throat, a reminder of his former Watcher status. A reminder that he was a mystery.
After the meal ended, Kinok caught up to Crier on her way to the libraries for her first lesson of the day. His feet were so silent on the flagstones that she did not hear him approach until he was already touching her shoulder.
“Scyre,” she said. It was the term he preferred.
“Leave us,” he said to the guards stationed at the end of the hallway. They looked at Crier for approval and, nonplussed, she nodded. Kinok waited until their footsteps had faded before speaking, leaning in close to her. “My lady,” he said, and from his black brocaded coat he withdrew a roll of yellowed parchment tied with twine. “You must be eager for more information on Midwife Torras, so I hope you do not find my actions offensive. But through a personal connection I was able to obtain several of the Midwife’s private correspondences and Designs.”
Crier waited, hyperaware of how little space there was between their bodies, the way he bent his head to speak softly in her ear.
“One of them was yours,” he went on. “Your Design, my lady, as commissioned by the sovereign.”
“My—?” She stared at the roll of parchment in his hand. “That is my Design?”
He’d made these inquiries, had acquired her Design, in a week’s time. It led her to wonder just how extensive his connections throughout the territory were. The Midwifery where she’d been Made was nearly a full day’s ride from here. And for proprietary reasons they were generally on strict advisement to keep all Designs confidential.
“Yes. I thought—with the scandal—you might be interested.”
“Scyre Kinok,” she breathed. “May I . . . ?”
But instead of handing the roll to her, he took her hand. “Crier,” he said, low and steady. “I give this to you for another reason. I know—I know you have been . . . reluctant about receiving my courtship over this past year. I know you still have reservations, though I have endeavored to show myself as a favorable asset to your cause and—ambitions. I hope that this will serve as a gesture of my faithfulness to you, should you choose to accept it.”
She looked at him. His chiseled face. His eyes, dark and unreadable. She didn’t know what to think, or to say.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said, pressing the papers into her hand. His eyes were fixed on her face, almost concerned. “Remember, you can trust me. We are on the same side.”
And then he was gone.
Crier couldn’t get outside fast enough, the rolled-up Design light in her fist as she pushed through the northeast doors to the gardens.
Her father’s gardens were huge and sprawling, starting at the east wing of the palace and stretching out to the edge of the bluffs, where the Steorran Sea crusted everything with salt. Nearly every evening after finishing her studies—Crier’s days were occupied by a series of tutors in history, the sciences, economics, complex mathematics—she escaped to the gardens and the cool air and the smell of growing things. Rarely did she stray this close to the cliffs. But she wanted to look through the documents in private. Whatever she would find there, she wanted to find it alone.
The gardens were arranged carefully by type and color: fruit and flowering trees near the east wing, so one could look out the window at sweet sun apples and fat ripe plums. Dayblossoms beyond that, white and pale yellow, and beyond