of her skull. The soft skin between each rib. The curve of her throat.
If she had a knife right now, she could have killed Crier ten times over.
But she couldn’t do that. Not today. Not yet.
Her unused voice was weak and breathy and kept cracking in odd places, although the more she sang the stronger it got, as if the songs themselves had woken from a long sleep. At first, she’d planned to sing only one song, but she found herself unable to stop. It kept her calm, even as her imagination slipped beneath the door and swirled silently through the halls of the palace like smoke, mapping out a plan. While Crier was otherwise occupied with tonight’s party, Ayla would finally have a chance to begin her mission.
After the bath and the hair, she pulled down the new dress from where she’d hung it. It was the most ridiculously complicated poof of a ball gown she’d ever seen. It was pale silver, with an embroidered train and a skirt like a wide bell, and the bodice had to be laced up in back, closed around Crier’s body like a hunter’s trap. The only upside, Ayla thought as she tied what must’ve been the thousandth pair of tiny laces, was that Crier looked about as miserable as Ayla felt. She was almost fidgety, eyes darting around her bedchamber, fingers twitching.
Her gaze kept catching on Ayla’s throat. The spot where her necklace lay beneath the collar of her handmaiden’s uniform. Once again, Ayla wanted to snap at her: I know you saw it. Wanted to say she couldn’t be toyed with. That it didn’t matter if Crier punished her now or dragged it on for weeks. It would all end the same way.
Ayla tugged at the laces harder than was necessary.
Two servants had carried in a big mirror for the purpose of preparing Crier for the ball. Crier was standing right in front of it, Ayla behind her, and when Ayla looked up, her eyes met Crier’s in the reflection.
She paused with the laces. Braced herself for an order.
“Why do humans still marry?” asked Crier.
“What?” Surely she’d misheard.
“In the past,” Crier said haltingly, like she was still working it through in her head. “I know your marriage customs were similar to ours. Largely for political or strategic gain, especially among the more influential bloodlines.”
“Yes,” said Ayla, and refrained from adding, Your customs are similar because your entire culture was stolen from ours. Because you have no history or culture of your own.
“But last spring, a serving boy married one of my father’s stableboys. And the year before, I know Nessa courted Thom from the orchards. None of them hold any significant status. So—”
“How do you know about that?” Ayla demanded, letting her hands fall away from the laces. She stared at Crier’s reflection, unable to keep the surprise off her own face. Ayla and Nessa weren’t friends, by any means, but Ayla felt protective of any of the servants’ secrets. Marriage among servants wasn’t illegal, but you never knew when the laws might change, or what ways the Automae would think of next to punish their own staff, to send ripples of fear among the humans.
Crier cocked her head. “The boys married at midnight on the bluffs. There was a partial eclipse that night and I wished to observe it from higher ground. I overheard them. Kinok informed me about Nessa and Thom.”
Ayla’s stomach dropped.
How in all the hells did Kinok find out? Why would he even care? Why would he tell Crier?
“So, if there is nothing to gain—no political influence, strategic advantage, or division of property—then why do humans marry?” Crier was peering at Ayla in the mirror, her eyes wide and curious, her body unnaturally still. She’d done this a few times, Ayla had noticed—so focused on one particular thing that she apparently forgot to play up the tiny movements that made her look more human: breathing, blinking, shifting, fiddling with something. Facial expressions, sometimes. Instead, she would just stand there, tall and frozen, a creature carved from stone.
“I don’t know if I’m the person to ask about that,” said Ayla.
“But you are my handmaiden,” said Crier with a slight air of triumph, “and you are supposed to attend to my needs. What I need is an answer.”
Ayla kept her eyes firmly on the laces beneath her hands, refused to meet Crier’s gaze in the mirror. It was getting darker outside the windows, the sky purple with dusk. They