didn’t have much time before Crier was supposed to make her entrance at the party, and Ayla itched for the brief freedom she knew tonight would bring.
“Supposedly, we marry for love,” Ayla said at last. The word was a bitter seed on her tongue. She’d never been in love before. Not like that. But she’d felt love—for her family.
Crier frowned. “That seems . . . ill-advised.”
“Agreed.”
Crier’s voice was softer now, barely audible. “That seems like it could end in a great deal of suffering.”
What would you know about suffering?
Ayla tugged at the second to last pair of laces, at the very top of Crier’s spine. “Almost done.” She was in a hurry now, the eagerness leaping up inside her like a flame.
Tonight, when the entire palace—Automae and servants alike—was preoccupied with the engagement ball, Ayla would be slipping down below the grand ballroom to the lower levels, where she’d learned that Kinok’s quarters were. She would be sifting through his possessions, his correspondence, anything she could find. Rowan had been clear. Look for a map or a ledger of heartstone trade. Maybe a diagram of the Heart itself, if such a thing existed. She could only read a handful of words, but Benjy had once showed her the names of council members, written them out for her in the dirt and then swept them away with one hand. She’d forgotten most of them, but she could still picture some of them, the specific shapes of each letter. She knew Ellios, Burn, Markus. Kita. Thaddian. She knew Automa; she knew human; she knew rebel. She knew heart.
She might not get it all tonight, but eventually, she would find something. She’d learn Kinok’s secrets. She’d find out what he knew of the Iron Heart, how to infiltrate and destroy it. She’d find the information that would change everything, information that could destroy the Automae in one fell swoop. That could end their reign forever. Freedom for all of humanity.
It was almost too big. Too much to conceptualize. So much bigger than the one fatal strike that mattered the most to her: Crier, dead in her arms.
But for that, Ayla would have to wait. She’d already waited so long; she could wait longer still. She could wait as long as it took.
First, she’d do what she promised Benjy and Rowan—she’d help the cause. She’d find a route to the Iron Heart, if such a thing existed. Then, and only then, would she give herself the one thing she wanted most—personal revenge.
She brushed some of Crier’s hair out of the way, more than ready to get this whole thing over with, and that was when she saw the tattoo.
It was tiny. Plain. Ten numbers etched into Crier’s skin with blue-black ink, each one smaller than a fingernail. Ayla had heard of these tattoos before, but she’d never gotten close enough to an Automa to actually see one.
This was Crier’s model number. The first six numbers identified her as Crier of Family Hesod. The second four indicated the year of her creation. It was one more reminder that the creature before Ayla, the creature laced into this rich, beautiful dress, the creature who prowled the bluffs at night—this creature was not human.
Unthinking, Ayla brushed her thumb across the number. A soft, barely-there touch; the second she realized what she was doing, she drew back and tried to play it off as pure accident. She didn’t look in the mirror, didn’t dare check whether or not Crier had noticed.
Crier’s skin was warmer than Ayla might have thought.
It was Crier who broke the silence between them. “Have you experienced love?”
“Yes.” Ayla bit her tongue.
“What does it feel like?”
Ayla thought not of love but of her necklace. The single shining piece of proof that once, a very long time ago, she had not been so alone.
“I don’t remember,” she answered at last. She finished the last lace and took a big step back, away from the mirror, still avoiding Crier’s eyes.
Crier wasn’t giving up. “Is there a physical sensation? Is it pleasant or painful?”
“Depends.”
“So you do remember.”
Just let me go. “Sometimes I feel better when I think of a certain song,” said Ayla. “That’s as much as I can tell you.”
“A certain song. Have I heard it?”
“No.”
“You did not sing it to me?”
“No, my lady.”
“Why not?”
Ayla sighed. “Well, it is . . . private.” It was a word servants rarely said. Nothing about their lives was supposed to be private.
Crier made a small, considering noise. “Then—you love that