music room. It had become a stand-in talisman ever since she’d lost her necklace, something to rub between finger and thumb when she got restless. How embarrassing, that something from Crier—a gift—could be so calming. So grounding. She’d already used it several times in the past week to go somewhere quiet when she had a moment off work and needed a beat to think, to breathe, to be truly alone.
If she was being honest, she’d gone to the music room to think about Crier. It felt like if she thought about her around Benjy and the other servants, they’d immediately see it written all over her face.
Desire.
Longing.
Loneliness.
Curiosity.
Shame.
How she wanted to sleep in Crier’s bed again. Or—something. How she hadn’t slept as deeply in months, maybe years, as she had that night. How she hadn’t felt so safe since before that day. That was the power Crier seemed to have over her.
Stop thinking about her.
Why was it so hard?
Gods. The sooner she stole the compass from Kinok, the better. She just needed to get her hands on the compass, and then she’d have everything she needed to lead Rowan, Benjy, and the other rebels straight to the Iron Heart. She wouldn’t have to be Crier’s handmaiden anymore. She could finally get her revenge, and then run. Leave the palace and never look back.
Ayla realized she was gripping the music room key so tight that the sharp points were digging painfully into her palm. She let go, placing both hands on her lap. Refusing still to look at Crier. Their knees were touching. It wasn’t even skin-to-skin contact; Ayla was wearing her uniform pants and Crier a long black mourning gown. So why was it affecting Ayla so much?
Those foolish, stolen moments in the tide pool, cold water and black night and Crier’s skin turned silver in the moonlight. The story of the princess and the hare and how Crier’s voice had started out quiet, unsure, but grew stronger as she told the story. Ayla had wanted to say, Tell me another. Another. She’d wanted to say, Don’t stop.
The tide pool. Crier’s bed. Moonlight again. Soft and warm, the smell of Crier everywhere, on the pillows and the blankets. When Ayla had turned her face into the pillow and breathed in, Crier filled her lungs. It should have felt like poison. It didn’t. She should be lying awake at night thinking of nothing but sliding a blade into Crier’s heart. She wasn’t. Instead she thought of: Crier’s odd, awkward affection, her questions, her endless curiosity—sweet, often naive, almost childlike, but always earnest, always fascinated by whatever answers Ayla was willing to give.
Ayla glanced at Crier out of the corner of her eye. Crier was staring out the other window, face turned away from Ayla. The curtains were drawn; a thin strip of grayish sunlight bisected her face, one half in light and the other in shadow. One eye glinting gold, the other a deep brown. She was beautiful. It was perhaps a terrible thing to admit, but Ayla couldn’t help it. Crier was beautiful. Created to be beautiful, but it was more than that; more than perfect bone structure and symmetrical features and flawless brown skin. It was the way her eyes lit up with interest, the way her fingers were always so careful, almost reverent, as she flipped the pages of a book. The way she held absolutely still sometimes, like a deer in the woods, so still that Ayla wanted to touch her, reach out and touch her face to make sure she was still real.
“I know you’re looking at me,” Crier said, and Ayla looked away so quickly that she nearly knocked her head against the carriage window. “I can tell. I can always tell.”
“No you can’t,” Ayla muttered, cheeks hot.
Crier raised an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”
Ayla didn’t answer. Instead, she let her gaze drop from Crier’s face to the black band on her arm, a silent question. Challenge for a challenge.
“Ah,” said Crier. “Yes. I . . . made a bargain. With my father.” She touched the armband, rubbing the thick black fabric between her fingers. Her jaw tightened. “Didn’t you wonder why Kinok released you so quickly?”
“I thought it was because he realized I’m useless to him,” Ayla said weakly. Her stomach hurt, turning over with something she refused to admit was gratitude. Or guilt. “I thought I just didn’t have what he was looking for.”