harvest, and we didn’t steal anything, so really there’s nothing to tell.”
“After the harvest—is tonight the Reaper’s Moon?”
Ayla blinked. “You’ve heard of it?”
“I live in Rabu, don’t I?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I know your festivals. I’ve read all about them.” She should have realized earlier, frankly. The masks, the dancing, the timing—right on the cusp of winter.
“Then you understand that this isn’t a crime,” Ayla said. Her eyes shone in the light from the crescent moon, her voice low and fierce but still loud enough to be heard over the drums, the voices, the pounding ocean. “We’re just dancing, just for one night, we’re not doing anything wrong—”
“I won’t tell,” she said again.
“—and nobody needs to get hurt—oh. What?”
“I won’t tell,” Crier repeated.
“You won’t?”
“No,” she said. “My father will never know. I—I promise.”
In the dark, the noise of the ocean rushing all around them, the act of promising felt so heavy. Or maybe it felt exactly as heavy as it was.
“You—” Ayla began, and then they both heard it at the same time: the crunch of a second set of footsteps, coming from inside the cave and drawing nearer. “Oh damn, that’ll be Benjy,” Ayla muttered. “Damn it all, he can’t see you here. We need to go.” She grabbed Crier’s sleeve and started off down the dark beach, dragging Crier behind her. They skirted the sharp rocks, wending their way down a narrow fisherman’s trail, hugging the cliffs. Every so often Ayla glanced over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
She stopped beside a tide pool and dropped Crier’s sleeve immediately. It was much quieter this far away from the Reaper’s Moon party. Above them, the crescent moon, the glittering night. Around them, the sea, the rocks, the tide pools teeming with colorful life. Crier’s vision adjusted to the new darkness. There were strands of hair sticking to Ayla’s temples and neck. As Crier watched, Ayla looked from her own hand to Crier’s sleeve as if she too were surprised by her actions.
Crier didn’t want her to be surprised. She didn’t want Ayla to regret leaving the party. “You seem nervous,” she said, probing, trying to figure out the tangle of Ayla’s human emotions.
“I’m not.”
“Worried?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Crier leaned closer, peering at Ayla’s moonlit face. “. . . Guilty?”
Ayla flinched. “No. No, you were right, I’m just worried.”
“About what?”
“Always the questions,” said Ayla, but she didn’t sound annoyed. More like exhausted. “I guess I’m worried because my, um, my friend Faye, she’s another servant, and she’s been . . . sick.”
“She has taken ill? That seems normal, especially with winter approaching.”
“No,” Ayla said again. “I mean, like, sick up here.” She gestured to her head. “And I don’t know what to do about it, or how to help her, or anything.” She huffed, a short, frustrated noise, and crossed her arms over her chest defensively, as if physically blocking off the next question.
Crier wanted to know more about this Faye. She wanted to know what Ayla meant when she said sick up here. But she did not want Ayla to run.
She wanted to give her a reason to stay. So, she sat down right there on the wet, sandy rocks. Cold dampness instantly began to soak through her dress. “My father’s library has a collection of books on human mythology. Not just Rabunian—not even just Zullan. Stories from all over the world, dating back thousands of years. I’ve read them all.”
Ayla sighed. But she joined Crier in sitting beside the tide pool, her toes dangling over the edge. She trailed a finger over the surface of the pool, ripples fanning out in perfect concentric circles, and for a long moment she did not speak.
“Tell me one,” she finally said. She didn’t seem to realize—or maybe she just didn’t care—that she had just given an order to a lady.
Maybe she could tell that it pleased Crier. That Crier wanted to tell a story.
Maybe she just wanted to be sure Crier was distracted and would not report the celebrations to her father.
Or maybe, maybe, she, too, wanted to stay.
It was impossible, but Crier swore her Made blood grew warm as stories bobbed to the surface of her mind like detritus after a shipwreck, thousands and thousands of stories from Rabu, Varn, the jungles of Tarreen, the lands across the Steorran Sea. She had to tell the right story, to do this right, to keep Ayla’s attention for as long as possible.
She thought of telling a story of Queen Junn of