“Be quick, but be careful,” said the Midwife, and Ayla startled; she’d forgotten the Midwife was here. “The veins are delicate, especially without blood flow.”

Siena nodded. Her dark hair was sticking to her temples with sweat, but her hands were steady.

“Now,” said the Midwife.

And Ayla watched, fascinated, as Siena cut the Made girl’s heart out of her body. Gently, she wrapped it in a white cloth and set it aside. Every movement was measured, purposeful. Siena knew what she was doing, Ayla realized. She knew how to navigate the inner workings of this body; she knew it like a Scyre, a Midwife, a Maker would; she knew it like breathing. Ayla found herself focusing on Siena’s face more than her hands. Studying her profile, finding all the similarities between them. My nose, she thought. My chin.

The memory shifted, Ayla’s surroundings blurring for a moment. When the world settled again, the Midwife was holding something out over the girl’s body, offering it to Siena with both hands. A lump of deep blue stone. Smooth and polished, no bigger than a clenched fist. There were tiny etchings on it, so faint Ayla could see them only when she leaned in. Alchemical symbols. Arranged in concentric circles. She caught the four elements, then gold.

Siena took the deep blue stone and lowered it into the hollow space left behind. Ayla heard the faintest noise, like a latch clicking into place.

A pulse of blue light. The heart flared for an instant, glowing, and Siena’s memory began to shift again, colors bleeding into each other, the world like wet paint smeared by a giant hand. The last thing Ayla saw was silver. Two spots of bright, starlike silver.

The girl had opened her eyes.

“Yora,” Siena breathed.

12

Ayla woke when the sky began to lighten, deep blue shifting to lavender. Crier, who had played sentinel all night, now watched as wakefulness spread like the dawn over Ayla’s body—first her fingers twitched, then her brow furrowed, then her lips parted, revealing a glimpse of her front teeth, then her eyelashes fluttered. Without opening her eyes, she took a long breath through her nose, a prolonged sniff that dropped into a hum at the end, a tiny throaty noise.

Ayla opened her eyes and blinked at Crier in the soft light. “We were s’posed to take turns,” she said, voice scratchy with sleep. “You were s’posed to wake me up.”

“You needed the rest,” Crier said, and got to her feet. She brushed ineffectually at the mud on her clothes, succeeding only in smearing it further. “You can keep watch tonight, if you choose.”

“Mm.” Ayla tried to stand up and stumbled, one knee buckling. Crier grabbed her shoulder, alarmed. She was more than a little stunned when Ayla didn’t shake her off.

“’M fine,” Ayla said, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m fine. Just—light-headed.”

“You need to eat,” Crier said.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how that’s going to happen, though.” Ayla breathed in slowly, then stretched, body a curve. Crier let go of her shoulder. “I could try to catch a fish again.”