kept Storme close. When she saw something she deemed interesting, like the hunting tapestries in the great hall or the library dedicated to Hesod’s vast collection of human books, she pointed it out to him and waited for his murmured comments. Like she cared. Like they stood on equal ground.
A single afternoon spent in her presence, and Ayla could tell that the queen of Varn was a mess of contradictions. She wore power like a crown of pure gold, impossible for anyone to ignore, and yet she hadn’t once used it to wound or punish. She was young—barely older than Ayla—but carried herself like an aging warrior-queen. She was fierce but gentle, unpredictable in her lack of cruelty. She looked like she could duel anyone in the kingdom and win, but also like she’d rather outsmart them instead.
She wasn’t like the stories. Ayla looked at her and couldn’t really imagine her bathing in a pool of human blood. Crushing bones between her teeth.
As the tour dragged on, Ayla began to realize that she wasn’t the only one watching Junn a little too closely. Crier kept stealing glances, too. For a leech, Crier really wasn’t very good at hiding her thoughts. She was looking at Queen Junn with something past curiosity, past intrigue. Almost like awe.
The tour took them through the west wing and to the east wing, where the queen would be staying. The east wing was much airier than the west, some of the big corridors lined with windows to let in the pale, post-rain sunlight, the white marble walls almost glowing with it. The procession’s footsteps echoed on the marble floors, a seemingly unending parade of sound. All of it was human—the queen’s men. The Automae were moving in perfect silence, like ghosts. A gesture of deference.
Crier watching the queen.
Ayla watching Storme.
Maybe Storme had been captured, she reasoned. It was uncommon for leeches to take prisoners during their raids, but it happened. Probably. Maybe he’d been captured and somehow ended up in the queen’s court and had never, not even once in seven years, had a chance to escape and come find the sister who believed he had been killed.
A wide, windowed corridor led them back into the bowels of the palace, where the marble halls were not so bright and unassuming. Lamplight flickered across the walls here, creating strange, leaping shadows. It was dim even in daylight. The procession’s footsteps still echoed, but the sound was duller, emptier. Somehow deadened. Ayla strained her ears to catch Hesod’s words as he told the Mad Queen about the history of these halls, the famous Automae who had built this palace and lived here since the War of Kinds. Power breeds power. She was only pulled from her daze when Crier paused in front of a single door, unnoticed by the rest of the party, and beckoned at Ayla to come closer. Ayla did, frowning.
“I want to show you something,” Crier said quietly, nodding at the dark wooden door. “I think—I think this will mean something to you. It used to be empty. But as of yesterday, it is empty no longer. Guess who has taken up residence.”
“I don’t know,” Ayla said, shaking her head.
Crier smiled. “It’s Faye.”
Ayla stared at her. “I’m sorry, why does Faye live in the east wing?”
Crier looked almost proud. “I requested it.”
“But why—?”
“My lady,” said another servant before Crier could answer. “Your father has noted your absence and requests that you rejoin him at the head of the party.”
“Of course,” Crier said smoothly, and turned away from Ayla without another word, following the servant down the corridor toward the tail end of the tour, the last Varnian humans disappearing around the corner. “Come, Ayla.”
But Ayla was rooted where she stood, rooted to the marble outside the door that apparently belonged to Faye.
What have you done, Crier?
Before she could think better of it, she knocked on the door. There was a scuffling sound from within, and then the door opened just a crack. Just enough to show a sliver of someone’s face, a single wide, unblinking eye.
“What are you doing here?” hissed Faye. “What do you want?”
Ayla glanced down the corridor—Crier was standing there at the very end, half melted into the shadows, so still that she might have been an extension of the marble floor, a statue erected in the middle of the hall. She was waiting for Ayla.
“What are you doing here?” Ayla whispered, so quiet that even Crier’s Automa hearing wouldn’t be able