But she’d asked her for something.
A thrill moved through Crier, and it stayed in her, keeping her alert and awake and alive, even as Ayla began to quiet, to nudge toward Crier, to move toward her warmth as if forgetting who—and what—she was. An enemy. An Automa. Instead, in the darkness between and around them, Crier was just a body. She could feel the moment when Ayla sighed, breaths slowing, sinking deeper into sleep. The fathomless depths of sleep, the dreaming place only humans ever experienced.
And at some point in the night, it happened. Ayla, who had shifted onto her back, rolled over into the middle of the bed. and in the process flung one of her arms over Crier’s waist. Crier froze, instantly awake. More than awake. She lay there, perfectly still, everything inside her narrowed to the soft weight of Ayla’s arm on the curve of her waist, that spot of warmth. She had to remind herself to breathe. Ayla preferred it when she breathed.
Breathe for Ayla.
The smell of her hair, like soap and sea lavender.
Breathe.
Midnight.
Moonlight.
In this new position, Ayla’s cheek was pressed into the crook of her own elbow. Her mouth was open slightly, soft-looking in a way Crier hadn’t really seen before. When Ayla was awake, her mouth was often a thin, displeased line, her jaw set. Crier tried to imagine what it would look like if Ayla’s eyes were open, if she were awake and her mouth was still so soft and open, her lips parted, her gaze dark and heated, her arm around Crier’s waist on purpose, with intent, and—Crier’s heart was so loud. A pounding in her chest, an ache in her lower belly. That not-hunger.
The soft moans she’d heard slip through the wood and stone of Junn’s door rose in her mind like sparks, flecks of gold in the dark. The shuddering breath. The leap and fall of voices. The knowledge of two bodies moving together, lips and skin and . . .
Silver light played across Ayla’s dark hair; her eyelashes made tiny, spiky shadows on her cheeks. Crier listened to her breaths—still slow and even, tidelike. She didn’t know how long they’d been lying like this.
Then Ayla shifted, nosing into the pillow, and something gold fell from the collar of her shirt. The necklace. Without thinking, Crier reached out to tuck it back into Ayla’s shirt, heart racing as her fingertips brushed softly against Ayla’s collarbones—but instead the chain came away entirely in her fingers. The clasp had broken.
There was a short, awful moment in which Crier thought she had somehow broken it, and then she looked closer and realized that the necklace was much older than she’d thought. The chain was dull and grimy, and the clasp had simply worn out.
It was still warm from Ayla’s skin.
And now it was in Crier’s palm, delicate gold chain and a gold pendant the size of a statescoin. Strangely heavy. The center was set with a single bloodred gemstone. It nearly glowed even in the darkness, like cut glass, like a glass of wine held in front of a lantern. Deep, rich color. She ran her finger around the edge of the pendant, admiring the smooth gold. Maybe she could fix the clasp before Ayla woke up, bend the metal back into shape. She brought it close to her face, pinching the clasp between forefinger and thumb—until something nicked her. She frowned, holding her hand up to the moonlight. The edge of the broken clasp must be sharp; something had caught on her fingertip. Blood welled to the surface. A single drop.
Unthinking, she ran her finger over the pendant again, distracted by the unnatural warmth of the gemstone, warmer than the gold around it, almost like there was a tiny source of heat inside—
Then the world lurched.
The familiar walls of her bedchamber melted away.
Crier blinked and the world was burning.
She gasped and then immediately regretted it. Her lungs filled with smoke and scorching ash, her throat lit up in pain.
She was standing in the middle of a street she did not recognize. The buildings on either side were too tall, made of wood and naked stone instead of the quicklime-white buildings of the seaside villages around the palace. The roofs were steep and pointed, piercing the sky, and the outer walls were lined with terraces of twisted black metal, and all of it was burning.
Above her, the sky was a bloody mess of red and yellow and putrid black smoke. Ash fell like