She thought about Ayla.

“What would make you want to hurt someone?” she asked Malwin, very quiet. “What would make you want to do something terrible?”

“My lady,” said Malwin, “I would never, I would never do anything to—”

“I know,” Crier broke in. “I know, Malwin. Please don’t worry. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just a question, I promise.”

In the mirror, she saw Malwin’s look of surprise. The handmaiden was older than Crier by a few years, with a narrow face, a big crooked nose, a scattering of small pockmark scars around her jaw. Her hair was tied back in a messy braid. She was pretty, Crier thought to herself. It was strange—she’d always been taught that Automae were the ideal. Like the rest of her Kind, Crier’s face was Designed to be perfectly symmetrical. She was tall and strong. She didn’t have any scars. But the most captivating person she’d ever met was Ayla: short, perpetually scowling Ayla, round-faced, freckled, wild-haired, beautiful Ayla.

What would make you want to hurt someone?

What would make you want to do something terrible?

“I suppose . . . ,” Malwin said slowly. “I suppose if they hurt me first. If they hurt someone I loved.”

But I didn’t hurt her, thought Crier, instantly defensive. Then she paused. It was true that she’d never physically hurt Ayla. The closest she’d ever come was at the inn, wild with panic, shoving Ayla back against the door, miscalculating the force of her own strength. Realizing what she’d just done, letting go, sick with a new type of panic, her brain tossing out hyperrealistic images of finger-shaped bruises on Ayla’s shoulders, Ayla’s bones breaking beneath Crier’s hands. Apologizing, horrified with herself. The hatred in Ayla’s voice: You’re an Automa. It’s your nature to overpower. Like she’d been expecting the worst and Crier had still managed to disappoint her.

It’s your nature to overpower.

Ayla hadn’t just been talking about the shove.

Malwin fastened the last pair of laces and took a step back, taking a look at Crier’s reflection in the mirror. “You are beautiful, my lady,” she said. “You make a lovely bride.”

Crier tried to respond, but her throat felt tight. Her body was tense all over. She felt like a fish caught in a net, a doe at the wrong end of a hunter’s arrow. Like she was dangling from a cliff, freezing water and sharp black rocks below, and this time she would not be saved.

Kinok didn’t know she knew the truth about her Flaw, but Crier couldn’t even consider it a victory. Every moment with him was a slow, drawn-out strangulation. He was dangerous, a monster, but Crier—couldn’t leave. She couldn’t.

Three days ago, as was tradition, she had met with the man who would officiate her wedding. He was a well-known, highly respected Designer, an Automa who worked with human Midwives to create newbuilt Automae. The sovereign had arranged the meeting. Crier had been expecting the Designer to walk her through the wedding ceremony, detailing exactly what she had to do and when. That was not what happened.