gather herself before it was her turn to wield the knife. The cut she made on Kinok’s forearm was not nearly so neat as his—a little shaky, a little too deep or too shallow in some places—but of course his blood spilled all the same. She untied his armband. Cast it aside. And under Hesod’s guidance, they pressed their forearms together, violet blood smearing between them, snaking down to drip from their elbows. A single drop landed on Crier’s skirt.
“We shall be bound,” Crier said. Her voice was quiet but clear, like a bell chime ringing through the ballroom. “Body to body. Blood to blood.”
“We shall be bound,” Kinok murmured, meeting her eyes. They held their pose—facing each other, wounds pressed together—for another moment.
Then Hesod said, “It is done,” and the crowd, which had been silent, repeated in unison, “It is done.” A single voice with a thousand layers.
Crier dropped her gaze from Kinok’s face as soon as she could. She looked down at the tiny dark stain on her skirt, the drop of fallen blood.
It was done.
After the ceremony ended, Crier was free to mingle with the guests, however little she actually wanted to do so. Kinok helped her down from the dais, his hand cool in hers, and together they stepped into the waiting crowd. The musicians had stopped playing during the ceremony, and now they started up again with a series of waltzes, music that was soft and tumbling beneath the hum of conversation. Crier soon lost her father to a member of the council and Kinok to a woman who was apparently also a Scyre, but she preferred it that way. She was not much in the mood for pleasantries. Her arm had been bandaged, but it still hurt, and the sick feeling in her stomach had returned. Had never left, maybe.
As she sought a quiet spot near one of the tapestries, Crier found herself sneaking glances at the only other humans in the ballroom who weren’t servants—the musicians, set up in a far corner. They were a quartet, lute and harp and pipes and a slow, rhythmic drumbeat. They kept their heads down, backs bowed over their instruments. There was no conductor, and yet each piece flowed seamlessly into the next, syrupy Tarreenian ballads becoming Varnian dancing songs becoming quick, light melodies that reminded Crier of sunlight scattered on the ocean, sparkling on the waves. With each new song, Crier thought: Would Ayla like this?
The crowd parted as she headed for the edge of the ballroom, seeking space, or air, or silence, all things she craved but would not find here. She was stopped every few moments by a guest offering well wishes or news or introductions or a glass of that pale wine.
The first time she saw someone wearing a black armband, so similar to the red one Kinok had just removed from her upper arm, she took little notice of it.
The second time, she thought it was an odd coincidence.
The third time, she wondered if perhaps this was a new trend.
The fourth time, she asked. She had finally spotted someone she actually knew: a girl named Rosi, who was the daughter of a merchant important enough to visit the sovereign’s home a few times a year but not important enough to wield any significant influence over the council. Rosi was wearing a dress of deep-blue silk, her hair twisted into a shining knot atop her head. She had tiny freckles painted all over her nose, rouge on her cheeks. A band of black fabric was wrapped around her left arm.
“Lady Crier!” Rosi called out, and extricated herself from a conversation with another girl to glide over, moving with the kind of effortless grace that all Automae were supposed to emulate. She had always been like that. “Lady Crier, it’s been too long.”
“A year at least,” Crier said. “I hoped you would come tonight.” And she meant it. Crier sensed that Rosi was most interested in her for the opportunity of social advancement she promised, perhaps believing that Crier, as the sovereign’s daughter, could help elevate her own standing. But even still, Crier appreciated having someone to write to regularly, someone to make her life less narrow and confined.
They had written each other a handful of letters over the last few years, and were as close as two Automae might get to being considered what humans called “friends.” Their Kind didn’t really experience friendship in the way humans did, as it was not particularly