a big bed, and there was plenty of space between them, yet it felt like there was very little space at all. If Crier reached out, her fingertips would brush the curve of Ayla’s shoulder blade.
Even with the fire and the moonlight, it was so dark.
“What do you do when you can’t sleep?” The question came out of Crier low and hushed.
“When I was younger,” Ayla whispered, “my mother would sing to me.”
Crier’s first thought was, I don’t have a mother.
It surprised her. She had never thought about that before, and did not want to start now. “What would she sing?”
“Lots of things,” said Ayla. “Lullabies. Folk songs. War songs, sometimes.”
“Is that why you love music?”
Love. The word sat on her tongue, turning over itself.
It made her want to lick her lips.
Made her want to speak more, to ask Ayla more questions until the sun rose.
But Ayla didn’t answer.
“Which was your favorite?” Crier tried again, tangling her fingers in the bedspread to make sure she didn’t do anything else with them. But there was the compulsion again—to behave differently. To reach out to Ayla. To take her hand. To turn Ayla’s face toward her own.
She and Ayla were both on top of the blankets, which was how Crier always slept, but now she was wondering if Ayla would prefer to be under the blankets, in the warmth. If Ayla rolled over, would her hand stretch across the empty space between them? Thoughts and images crowded Crier’s head, a thousand different scenarios—the potential—
In the next second, her mind went white.
Her thoughts vanished like dancing sparks.
Because Ayla started singing.
“Listen for my voice across the wide, storm-dark waters,” she sang under her breath, so quiet it was barely a tune. “Listen for my voice, let it guide your way home. . . .” She shifted, curling further into herself as she continued. Then after another minute, she stopped as abruptly as she’d started, cutting the last note short.
Silence.
Crier felt like a harp. All her strings plucked. Her whole body humming.
“Thank you,” she said, breathless.
Ayla didn’t reply for a long time. When she finally spoke, it had nothing to do with the song. “You need to stop giving Faye special treatment.”
“What?”
“Faye. The special room you gave her, and special privileges. I don’t know why you did that, but you need to take it away.”
Crier frowned into the darkness. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“No, it’s not. Nothing about this is fair, my lady. But you’re not helping her like this. All you’re doing is singling her out.”
“To whom? The other servants?”
“The other servants. Your father. The Scyre. Everyone. It’s not a good thing. It’s—it’s dangerous.”
For some reason, Crier felt stung. “I was just trying to help,” she whispered. Because you were worried about her. You were worried about Faye. I wanted to help you.
“I know,” said Ayla, sounding defeated. “I . . . I actually believe you. But you can’t just help one human, Crier, not like this.” The sheets rustled as Ayla turned over, slowly, until she was facing Crier, her body curving toward the center of the bed. “The only way to help Faye is to help us all.”
Crier looked at Ayla in the darkness. “Then how can I help?”
There was a long pause. Crier could hear Ayla breathing, soft like the distant rush of the ocean. But so much closer.
“How serious are you?” Ayla asked finally. “Because—because this could get me killed. This isn’t a game, Crier. This isn’t a faerie story in one of your books. This is life and death.”
“I’m serious,” Crier said. She propped herself up on one elbow, finding Ayla’s eyes in the darkness. “Let me prove it to you.”
They stared at each other. Ayla’s eyes glinted in the moonlight—not golden, not like Crier’s. Deep wells. Swallowing the light.
Did Ayla trust her? No, not yet. Crier could see that. But that didn’t mean it was impossible.
“How much do you really know about Kinok?” Ayla whispered, as if she were suddenly afraid that Kinok might be listening in.
“Not much,” Crier whispered back. “I’ve been trying to learn more. I know he’s more powerful than I ever expected. I know he’s experimenting with heartstone. I know he has a special compass. I don’t know why it’s special, but the Red Hands certainly did. And they looked . . . jealous.”
A slight rustle, Ayla nodding her head against the pillow.
“Find out what he’s really up to,” she said. “That’s how you can help.”
Ayla hadn’t given her anything, hadn’t opened up, not really.