Ayla might have preferred to run for her life.

“My own wedding,” she said. She glanced at Crier, who had chosen this moment to become wholly focused on the plate of bread that had been set out for Ayla. “Our wedding. Of course. Well, it was very beautiful. Wender spared no expense.”

At the mention of her fake name, Crier looked up. “It is true,” she said helpfully.

“It was . . .” Ayla had only ever attended one wedding, when she was five years old. All she remembered was laughter, bright colors against winter snow, a banquet for the whole village, people bringing whatever they could spare. Stewed fruit and roasted fish, sweet white bread, hot buttered tea. Dancing, a lot of dancing. Snow kicked up around fur-lined boots. “It was in spring,” she said. “When all the fruit trees were blooming, and there were petals everywhere, like a blanket of snow. We got married in the morning and spent the rest of the day feasting and dancing and, and drinking and receiving gifts.”

“In the human tradition, then,” said Shiza.

Ayla nodded. “We both agreed it would be more fun. Right, Wender? Wender dearest?”

“Right,” said Crier. “We wanted to dance. Not just the waltz.”

“You drank enough wine to feel it a little,” said Ayla. “You tripped over my feet.”

“You almost knocked over an entire table of desserts,” Crier retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“But I didn’t. You danced with all one hundred guests, then you tried to climb one of the fruit trees. In the dark. I had to pull you down by the ankle.”

“It was a plum tree,” said Crier. “I wanted a plum.”

“I got one for you,” said Ayla, cheeks hot.

Crier inclined her head. “You did,” she said. “We shared it.”

“Everyone was, um. Everyone was wondering where we went.”

“You wore flowers in your hair,” Crier said. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were softer.

It was quiet for a long moment. Then Shiza said, “But . . . who was in attendance? Anyone I might know?”

“You can take this one,” Ayla told Crier, and went back to her soup, ignoring the drumbeat of her heart, the warmth beneath her skin.

Shiza offered them a room for the night, and it would have looked suspicious to refuse. After Shiza and Crier had finished their heartstone, and Ayla had forced down another goblet of bitter wine, Shiza bid a servant girl to lead them upstairs. Ayla and Crier waited outside the doorway as the girl made up the bed and lit a fire in the hearth. The bedchamber Shiza had given them was big and comfortable, with a canopied bed and a set of tall windows facing out over the estate grounds, lost to darkness this late at night. A writing desk sat in one corner, a wardrobe in the other. The hearth fire lit up the whole room, yellow light dancing on the walls, shadows flickering over the white plaster ceiling.