Where everyone could see. There, strung up like a lantern.
Nessa’s shoes. And her handkerchief.
The blood on it—from Ayla’s stupid bloody nose, after her encounter with Faye—had dried and darkened, but it was unmistakable. The handkerchief fluttered in the breeze, pale like Luna’s dress, which seemed to be both ages ago and happening all over again before Ayla’s eyes.
A few servants were gathered beneath the trees. They were looking up at the shoes and handkerchief in silence. Just watching.
Ayla could hear her own breaths coming too loud and too harsh in the stillness of the early morning, but she couldn’t stop.
Malwin was among the crowd. She was recognizable by her white bonnet. After a long moment, she turned her face away from the handkerchief, the shoes, and hurried away with her shoulders hunched up around her ears. Before Ayla realized what she was doing, she was chasing after her.
She caught up to Malwin quickly. “Hey!” The rage, the sadness, the panic that had flooded her veins all narrowed into focus. Made her shake with urgency. Nessa was gone. But Benjy still lived—for now. She had to be sure he’d stay safe. No one else knew about Kinok’s chart yet. She hadn’t told anyone.
And no one—no one else was dying on her account, unless it was Crier.
Malwin whirled around. Her eyes were wild, her face bloodless. “You,” she said. More like spat.
Ayla ignored it. “You’ve been in the palace longer than any of us,” she said. “You know more than—than anyone now, after Nessa—”
“What do you want?” Malwin spat.
“Information. About Nessa and what she did, what she told them, what got her killed—”
“You stole my place.” Malwin’s mouth twisted. “You stole my job, my coin. I owe you nothing.”
“I’m not asking for myself.”
“Then take some advice,” said Malwin, stepping into Ayla’s space. She was so close now that Ayla could smell her: herbs and flour, like the kitchens. Her hair was damp with sweat beneath the white bonnet. “Ask for no one but yourself. Care for no one but yourself. That’s the only way you’ll ever survive this place.”
“Malwin—”
“They know everything about us,” Malwin breathed. “Everything we do. Everyone we—” She took a step back, her fists clenched and trembling. “The Scyre’s always watching.”
“The Scyre? What do you know about Kinok?”
“Oh no you don’t,” Malwin hissed. “I don’t want none of what Faye got. You saw what happened to her sister.”
“Faye . . . ?” Ayla frowned, the tapestry in Kinok’s quarters, and the chart it covered, wavering through her mind. “Did . . . did Faye do something to Kinok? Is that why the leeches killed Luna? Is that why you’re scared?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Malwin whispered, her eyes darting around. “Don’t wanna bring the bad things down on myself.” Then she leaned in close, speaking barely above a whisper. “All I know is this: track the sun apples. But the Scyre keeps his secrets safe. Don’t study him too close.”
Safe. Study.
Ayla waited, but Malwin didn’t offer up anything else.
“And that’s all you heard?” said Ayla, trying not to let her frustration show.
Malwin shook her head. “That’s all. Told you it wasn’t much. I don’t go poking around,” she said pointedly, “because I don’t want nobody else dying in this place, not because of me.”
“Of course,” said Ayla, backing off. “Thank you, Malwin.”
“Don’t come near me again. I won’t be tied to you.” Malwin spat on the ground at Ayla’s feet. “I won’t end up like Ness.”
Then she stalked off.
Ayla was left there, standing alone in the middle of the grounds, and for the longest time she did not move. She wanted to cry. But she’d lost that ability years ago.
Benjy had wanted to join the rebellion in the South with Rowan. He should have gone. But she had told Benjy that the odds were in their favor. That Ayla’s position as handmaiden was their chance at real revolution. He had believed her.
That feeling, the same one that had come to her in the music room last night, returned to her now. That leaping and falling. That fear. Had she made the wrong choice?
Did it matter?
She looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
Rowan. She wanted to talk to Rowan now, needed her advice, craved her presence, and the feeling that no matter what happened, Rowan would be there to bandage her wounds, to get her back on her feet. Rowan, who had put her up to this in the first place—who had left, already, to investigate the uprising