worked with Midwives and Designers to home in on a final model. Then, finally, the last sheet of parchment. The final blueprint. Unlike the papers Crier had found, this final blueprint bore her father’s signature. The midnight-blue ink of Hesod’s name was stark against the softer, lighter lines of the blueprint.
Jezen pointed to the center of the blueprint, the center of the Crier on the page, but it wasn’t necessary. Crier was already looking at the pillars. Four tiny columns of ink: Intellect, Organics, Calculations, Reason. Four. Just like there were supposed to be.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why would there be . . . ?” And even as she said it, she did understand.
“The blueprints you saw were fake,” Jezen said gently. She could probably already see the realization on Crier’s face. “They were forged. Can you think of anyone who might want to trick you, Lady Crier?”
Yes, of course she could. Someone who wanted not just to trick her, but to control her. To blackmail her into absolute obedience. To make her live in constant fear.
She felt sick.
Crier wasn’t Flawed. She’d never been Flawed. She was perfect; she was fully Automa. There was nothing wrong with her, no Passion consuming her from the inside out. No love.
“No,” she said without meaning to. “I don’t know who would do that.” Her own voice sounded so far away, as if she were hearing herself speak from across the entire Midwifery.
With careful hands she picked up her own blueprints and rolled them up again and fastened the leather string tight around them. She did all of this without a single thought in her head, nothing but a faint hum, the buzz of a locust swarm. Perhaps she had finally hit her limit.
“Lady Crier,” said Jezen.
Crier handed her the roll of parchment. “Thank you for clarifying the error, Midwife Jezen,” she said. “I apologize for keeping you.”
“Lady Crier—”
“My driver is waiting. I’ll take my leave now. Thank you again.”
“Crier,” Jezen said, grabbing Crier’s sleeve. Crier turned to face her again, so surprised by a human grabbing her like that that she didn’t even try to resist. “Before you go, let me say this.”
Crier waited. Jezen’s eyes, the color of the forest in Siena’s memory, were so intent on Crier’s face.
“Humanity is how you act, my lady,” said Jezen. “Not how you were Made.”
And she let go of Crier’s sleeve.
Back in the carriage, Crier did nothing but turn Ayla’s necklace over and over in her hands. It had become a habit to run the gold chain through her fingers like water, to hold the tiny red stone up to the light, to rub the gold casing like a talisman between finger and thumb. To hold the stone up to her ear and listen to the faint ticking of its odd inorganic heartbeat.
She supposed she should do away with it now. It belonged to Ayla, and she would never see Ayla again. Before Ayla it had belonged to Siena, long dead. Crier was done fishing through the memories of a person she would never know. Whatever had driven Siena to Make or commission this necklace, Crier would never know. She didn’t want to see Siena with that wild, beautiful, laughing human boy. Definitely didn’t want to see her with the not-Automa, Yora. That was a story that could only end with sorrow and blood.
But there was still one thing she didn’t understand: What did Yora’s heart mean? And why had Kinok written it down?
Closing her eyes, Crier held the locket between her palms. She could feel the heartbeat like this, the tiniest vibration against her skin.
One last time, she thought, squeezing the locket tight. If she couldn’t cut the love out of her, she would rid herself of it like humans did: by saying goodbye. Goodbye, Ayla. She took one of the bone hairpins from her hair and carefully pricked the top of her finger with it. Then she pressed her finger to the red stone and closed her eyes.
Images flashed through her head, one right after the other, and she realized she was thrown back into the same memory she’d witnessed before, entering where it had cut off—
A burning city. Buildings collapsing beneath the weight of the flames, smoke billowing into a sky like an open wound. Two figures racing away from the flames, toward the sea—the port. Leo and Siena, little Clara in Leo’s arms.
“. . . humans in the southeast fishing villages are standing strong,” Leo was saying, his voice loud