of dismantling our world, it is the dancer.”
Crier thought of this as she turned around the floor with Kinok. Thought, too, of her new handmaiden. Did Ayla know how to waltz? Probably not. And even if she did, she’d certainly never dance with Crier, never place her hand at Crier’s waist and steer her through a ballroom the way Kinok was doing, spinning with the music, their bodies close together and yet separated by two inches of tense space. Close enough to feel the rhythm of her human breath.
No. Ayla would never dance with her.
And yet: Crier recalled the look of surprise on Ayla’s face when she’d given her the key to the music room this evening. For some reason, that surprise had pleased her.
“You must be in good spirits,” Kinok said, and Crier realized she had been smiling to herself. “Tonight has gone well.”
“I think my father will be satisfied,” she agreed carefully.
“And what about you? How do you feel?”
“I . . .” She glanced up to find him gazing down at her, eyes intent. “I feel that our union is good for the future of our country.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t understand. Why would it matter what I feel?” She pushed into the next step of the waltz perhaps a bit too quickly.
Kinok matched her steps easily. “Lady Crier, there is no need to keep secrets from me.”
“Secrets?” She glanced up at him and was met with his steady gaze, brown and piercing. It was intimidating, but her curiosity won out. He seemed to know so much about her—she wanted to balance the scales. “It seems you are the one with secrets, Kinok.”
A smile revealed his perfect teeth. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’ve been a guest in our home for nearly a year, coming and going as you please, involved in your private studies and building up your Movement. You seem to take an interest in my political views and essays, but what do you share of your work?”
The smile remained. “I’m happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.”
“What do you spend so many hours researching, then?”
“History. Connections. The work of Thomas Wren.”
“The first Maker?”
“Creator of our Kind,” Kinok said with a nod.
“A human genius,” Crier added.
He twirled her around. “As a Scyre, I studied the Makers who were part of the Barren Queen’s academy. Thomas Wren gets a lot of credit—but I’ve found that tends to diminish the true richness of the history.”
“The richness of our history.”
“Indeed.” He stared at her for a moment. “It’s beautiful, really. There is quite a bit of complexity in how we are Made. Each one of us is a little different. Though of course, there are limits to how different.”
Despite herself, Crier was intrigued. Not only did Kinok seem to know something she didn’t about Thomas Wren, but it was surprising that he was so fascinated with the subject to begin with.
“Lady Crier,” he said quietly, interrupting her thoughts. “I know your secret.”
It took everything inside her to keep dancing, to keep her face pleasantly impassive even as her blood turned to ice. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Scyre.”
“I saw your Design.”
Her stomach lurched and her mind raced. He had looked? He knew? “I don’t—”
“Please don’t misunderstand. I mean you no harm, my lady.” He bent his head, whispering in her ear. To the onlookers, it would appear intimate. It was intimate, she realized. “I won’t tell anyone that you are . . . Flawed.” The word whispered across his tongue and yet it stung like a snake’s bite. “Your secret is safe with me. We are bound, aren’t we?”
He was offering her comfort, solidarity. And yet . . .
“We are,” Crier breathed. Her heart was pounding so rapidly that she half expected her chime to go off. “We—we are bound.”
“So, I will help you. And I’m sure you will do the same for me.”
“Help me? How?”
His fingers flexed on her waist. “The sovereign has been unable to find any information on the Midwife Torras. Anyone who has done this to you, and perhaps others as well, deserves to be punished.” He did not elaborate, which was probably for the better. If Kinok thought he could unearth information beyond the sovereign’s reach, he had to be operating outside the law. Usually, Crier would discourage him. But if there was anything about Torras that could help Crier, protect her reputation, protect her father . . . she had to use it.
“Do it,” she said shakily. “Find her. Do