Crier sat on the lip of the hearth, warming her hands. “Thank you,” she said to Ayla, eyes downcast.

For what? Ayla wanted to ask, but she was afraid of any answer that wasn’t For helping me find heartstone. After a moment of hesitation, she joined Crier at the hearth, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. Now that they were alone together, Ayla wished for another piece of bread or bowl of soup; not because she was still hungry, but because eating would give her something to do with her hands. Something to focus on that wasn’t the girl in front of her. Something to think about that wasn’t the last time they’d been alone in a room like this. Elderell. The Green River Inn.

Ayla climbed onto the hearth, relishing the heat after two days of sleeping on the frozen ground. She brought one leg up to her chest, wrapping her arms around it, chin resting on her knee. She could feel Crier’s eyes on her. They needed to talk about what Shiza had told them, the blue smoke rising to the west, but now that they were alone Ayla could think of nothing but Elderell. Nothing but Crier’s hands. Nothing but that kiss. Was Crier having the same thoughts, reliving the same memories? For the first time Ayla allowed herself to think beyond the moonlit bedroom, beyond the knife, the chime; she allowed herself to wonder: Did Crier regret the kiss? Did it mean anything to her, or had she cast it from her mind immediately and never given it a second thought? Did Automae . . . feel things like that? Could an Automa girl feel that tug in her lower belly, that fishhook pull, making her want more, want harder, want deeper, want sweeter? Want hands in her hair, on her waist, on her hips, want—? Don’t go there, Ayla told herself, but she couldn’t help it. Yesterday afternoon in the river, she had seen the whole of Crier’s body, and the yearning that drummed through her wasn’t anything she’d felt before, and her own reaction wasn’t anything she’d felt before, the oceanic pulse between her hips, the things she wanted. Skin on skin, fingers intertwined. She’d tracked the drops of water trailing down Crier’s throat, her collarbone, the curve of her back, down her bare legs when she climbed back up onto the riverbank, and looking hadn’t felt like enough. Did Crier feel the same? Could Crier feel the same? Maybe Ayla already knew the answer. The way Crier had touched her in Elderell, hands flying from Ayla’s arms to her face, fingers raking through her hair, lips parting . . .

The way Crier looked at her. Then and now.

Ayla opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and found Crier gazing into the hearth fire, eyes flickering gold, hands curled in her lap. Without thinking, Ayla reached out. She took Crier’s hand and turned it over, palm up. Touching just to touch. A thousand excuses leaped into her mind—you’re warm and full and sleepy, you’re not thinking properly, you’re just glad to be alive, you just want to be close to someone—but Ayla knew damn well there was no excuse for this. For the things she wanted. The things she didn’t.