“All right,” she said now, facing Crier in the cold morning sunlight. “You ready?”

Crier nodded.

They were met by a human servant as they crossed the courtyard. He bowed in deference, and it took Ayla a second to realize he wasn’t just bowing to Crier. He was bowing to her, too. In Varn, she could be an elite. She, a human, could blend into the gilded spaces. She was profoundly grateful for the clothes she’d been gifted by Queen Junn. They weren’t flashy—just wool pants that tapered at the ankle, a wool shirt with a subtle brocade, fur-lined boots—but they were noticeably fine, even when covered with mud stains no amount of river water could wash out.

“My wife and I were attacked by horse thieves,” Ayla said to the servant, mimicking the Rabunian court accent, which clipped along like hooves on cobblestone. She didn’t even stumble over the word wife, which she thought was very impressive of her. “They stole all our belongings—including my wife’s heartstone supply.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ayla saw Crier straightening her shoulders, raising her chin. She was unmistakably Automa, and unmistakably regal. There was just something about her presence, even now, even bloodstained, barefaced, waning with hunger. “We’re wives,” she announced.

Ayla wanted to hide her face in her hands, but reined it in.

“Of course,” the servant murmured, eyes flicking between them. “I will inform the Lady Shiza of your arrival, mistresses . . . ?”

“Clara,” said Ayla. “My wife is called Wender.”

That night, they dined with Lady Shiza, a Varnian noblewoman.

She was old enough that age was just beginning to show on her face, faint lines at her mouth and brow, a slight papery quality to her skin. Her hair was cropped short, her hands dripping with silver jewelry, at least three delicate rings on each finger.

“To company,” Shiza said, raising her goblet once she, Ayla, and Crier were seated around the long table. The silver on her wrists and fingers glinted in the candlelight; the silver goblet reflected starry dots of yellow. “To drinking well. To iron and diamonds and the Child Queen, Phoenix of the Eastern Sea.”

“To the queen,” Ayla and Crier echoed, and all three of them drank. Liquid heartstone for the two Automae, dark wine for Ayla. She’d also been given bread and a bowl of spiced pumpkin soup. She hadn’t eaten since the foraged mushrooms, and it took all her self-control to eat slowly, politely, to not shove the bread into her mouth and swallow it whole. The wine was warm and bitter, with the dry, almost metallic aftertaste of a tannin-rich tea. Even one mouthful burned, warmth spreading through Ayla from head to toe, settling in her belly.

“What business brings you to my country?” Shiza asked, beckoning one of the servants over. The divide between human and Automa was not as wide in Varn as in Rabu, but the servants were still human. She motioned at him to top off her goblet. “You were attacked by horse thieves. Did it happen nearby?”