“We’re almost there,” she said to Benjy, setting her eyes on a narrow alley between two buildings, a place to wait out the guards. “You all right?”
He shuddered. “I’ll be fine. Just keep going.”
“Always,” she said. “Always.”
25
During the journey to the Midwifery, as she sat alone in the carriage, Crier came to a conclusion. Even after everything that had happened, after what Ayla had tried to do. Crier still loved her. Maybe she had loved her ever since the moment Ayla had saved her life on the cliff so many weeks ago.
Crier had been Designed. Crier was Made. But in the moment Ayla first touched her, Crier had learned what it felt like to be born.
She’d asked Ayla once what love felt like.
I don’t remember, Ayla had answered, lacing up Crier’s dress. Crier could still recall the way her rough, calloused fingertips had brushed across her shoulder blades.
Is it pleasant or painful? Crier had asked.
Depends. Ayla’s voice, soft across her neck.
So you do remember.
There was only one logical explanation for such madness: she loved Ayla because she was Flawed. Because she had a fifth pillar. It was her Passion that had fallen in love with Ayla, not Crier herself—she would never otherwise be that foolish, that uncalculated, that wrong. Lady Crier was an Automa. She was heir to the sovereign—had every intention of reforming the Red Council, of changing the laws and ways of Zulla. Lady Crier would never allow herself to become so weak and soft over a human girl. She would never open herself up to betrayal.
All of this had happened only because of the fifth pillar. Logically, there was only one solution.
She needed it gone.
Ayla hadn’t succeeded in cutting out Crier’s heart. So Crier would do it for both of them. She wanted the Passion out of her, wanted to carve it out herself, like cutting away the bruise on a piece of fruit. Like burning away deadly spores on a tree branch, killing part of the tree so the rest could survive.
The Midwifery operated out of what had once been a human cathedral. It was a massive building, nearly the size of the Old Palace, the spires twisting up into the sky like columns of smoke. Every inch of the facade was carved with intricate designs: scenes from old human stories, gods and heroes, diagrams of the night sky: the planets, the constellations, the phases of the moon. The Automae guarding the doors were cloaked in black, their faces hidden by masks, and they reminded Crier far too much of Kinok. As her carriage drew near, she couldn’t help clutching the necklace, rubbing her thumb over the smooth red stone. Somehow, it helped calm her down.
A pair of Midwives appeared the moment Crier’s carriage passed through the iron gates. Like all Midwives, they were human and dressed all in white: white uniform shirt and pants, their hair pulled back and hidden under a white veil. One of them wore a white mask over their mouth, sort of like the masks Queen Junn and her retinue had worn. They looked like the inverse of the guards.
“Welcome, Lady Crier,” said the Midwife without the mask, even though Crier hadn’t introduced herself or sent word ahead that she was coming. “We are honored.”
The two Midwives helped Crier out of the carriage, and then the one with the mask led it away toward a small keep so the horses could rest and replenish themselves for the journey home. The remaining Midwife glanced at Crier’s small guard, her eyes impassive.
“We do not allow weapons inside the Midwifery,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said Crier. “They will remain outside.”
The Midwife nodded, giving Crier a long look from beneath her white veil. Then she inclined her head. “You may call me Jezen.” Then she turned on her heel and headed for the wide wooden doors of the Midwifery.
Crier followed, trailing after Midwife Jezen through the doors and into the belly of the cathedral.
If the exterior of the Midwifery was beautiful, the interior was breathtaking. The walls were lined with polished stone pillars that met to form an arched ceiling so far above her head that she had to crane her neck back to look at it. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the tall windows lining the nave, tiny galaxies of dust motes floating and orbiting in the light, and the walls were painted with images similar to the ones carved into the facade. But the paintings were newer than