inherent or cultivated—it was not part of Traditionalism and thus not reinforced, the way family and some of the arts were encouraged under Hesod’s rule.
Which was perhaps why Rosi looked so surprised—and relieved.
“Really? I am honored, my lady.”
“That black band on your arm, though. I am curious that you never spoke of it in our correspondence. Is this some type of fashion?”
Rosi laughed, and then seemed to realize that Crier was serious. “Oh! No, my lady,” she said, giving Crier a confused little smile. “Do you really not know? It is your fiancé’s symbol, after all.”
“His symbol?”
“Yes.” Rosi finished her glass of wine in one swallow and passed the empty glass off to a human servant, switching it for a full one. It took perhaps a barrel of wine to have any effect on an Automa’s faculties; she seemed determined to reach that point. “We use it to identify fellow members of the Movement.”
The Anti-Reliance Movement.
Crier frowned, scanning the crowded ballroom. Now that she was looking for it, she realized that practically one in every ten guests was wearing the black band. Did Kinok really have so many dedicated followers? And they were bold enough, it seemed, to declare their alliance so openly, right under Hesod’s nose.
“Right,” she said. “Of course. And you—you’re a member of the Movement?”
“Oh, yes. I learned about it from my own fiancé, actually. He’s around here somewhere—Foer, son of Councilmember Addock. Have you met?”
“Yes, I’ve met Foer.” From what Crier could remember, he was a quiet, unassuming boy, softer than his father had intended. “Congratulations on your binding.”
“Thank you, lady,” said Rosi. Then she glanced around, as if making sure there were no eyes on their conversation, and leaned in closer. “Truth be told, it would never have happened if not for Scyre Kinok.”
“What do you mean?”
“Councilmember Addock’s estate was one of those targeted in the Southern Uprisings. If Scyre Kinok had not been there to warn him, to help him fend off the attacks, the humans might have overrun his estate. Councilmember Addock, his husband, my Foer—they all might have been killed.”
“I see,” Crier murmured.
“Oh, look!” said Rosi, loud again. “They’ve begun dancing. Your first dance will be soon, my lady.” She laughed, light and pretty. “Such an old-fashioned custom, is it not? I prefer not to dance myself. It always looks so clumsy.”
“I like it,” said Crier, ever the good daughter.
Then she turned—just in time to nearly collide with the very person she was looking for. Kinok stood before her, calm as ever, his red waistcoat the color of human blood.
“My lady,” he said. “Will you join me for our first dance?”
All the guests around them were looking at her now; the dance floor was emptying out. A space cleared just for Crier and her fiancé. Her bound life. Body to body, blood to blood.
“Yes, Scyre,” she said, and let him pull her into the middle of the ballroom.
Everyone was watching, including her father. On the surface, it looked like he was continuing his conversation with an envoy from the Far North, smiling jovially, charming her, charming everyone, but his eyes were on Crier. Which reminded her: in all the chaos of the planning and the ceremony, she had nearly forgotten that in just three days, she was to attend her very first council meeting. It was something to look forward to, at least.
Smiling, Kinok drew her close. One of his hands rested on the small of her back, the other entwined with her own hand. Their fingers slotted together like stitches on an open wound. Crier put her free hand on Kinok’s shoulder, keeping her touch as light as possible, unwilling, still, to press into him.
A strain of harp strings.
A low, deep drumbeat.
Alone in the center of the ballroom, countless pairs of eyes tracking their every move, Crier and Kinok began to dance.
It was a waltz. Yet another human tradition, one her father was particularly enamored with: he often brought human dancers into the palace and bid them to perform for him, slow waltzes and fast, wild numbers that looked more like fighting than dancing, and he watched it all with dark, fascinated eyes. “Look,” he would say to Crier, ordering the dancers to repeat a certain movement or sequence of steps. “Look at the fluidity, the grace in each transition. They make it seem effortless. But see for yourself: their muscles are trembling. It is not effortless at all.” Once, he had said: “If there exists a type of human capable