“My lady—”

“Outside.”

Reluctant, eyes darting between Crier and Faye, Malwin dropped Faye’s wrist and left the room for a second time, closing the door quietly behind her. There were guards stationed outside Crier’s bedroom door—ever since the attack, she’d been forbidden from going anywhere without at least four guards in tow. It was a nightmare; the presence of guards completely ruined the sanctity of the library and the music room, but Crier figured that was probably the only thing that would prevent Malwin from pressing her ear to the door, attempting to eavesdrop.

“Best get on with it, lady,” said Faye. “Pulled me away in the middle of a shift, you did. Old Nessa’s sure to be angry.” She smiled. “Oh, but that’s not right, it’s not Nessa anymore, is it. Nessa’s dead in the ground. Everyone’s dead in the ground. Am I next? Why’d you call me here, lady?”

“So I could give you this,” said Crier, picking up one of the books on the bedside table and flipping through it until she found what she was looking for: a small envelope sealed with wax. She held it out to Faye, but Faye didn’t move.

“What is that?” she asked, eyeing the envelope. “What will you have me do?”

Crier swallowed. “Please. You’re the only person I know who might be able to find her.”

Her.

“She’s gone, lady,” Faye said. “Nobody knows where she went, not me, not anyone. She could be halfway across the ocean by now. She could be dead.”

She’s not dead, Crier thought, and then, absurdly: I would have felt it. “Just—please,” she rasped, taking a step closer to Faye. “Please. If you hear anything, anything . . . I know you know people in the—Resistance. Please. Please just try. Please, Faye. You’re the only hope I’ve got.”

Faye took the envelope from Crier, tucked it into the pocket of her red servants’ uniform. “Don’t expect much, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Crier breathed. She wrapped both arms around herself, unmoored. This was it, then. This was her goodbye, and there was a good chance it would never even come close to reaching Ayla, this unmarked envelope in the hands of a half-mad scullery maid. Inside it, a dried seaflower and a single sentence:

You were right about the law of falling.

Ayla couldn’t read. She would have to get someone else to tell her what the letter said. That is, if it found her at all. If she didn’t throw it away, rip it up, burn it. But what else did Crier have? What else could she do?

You were right about the law of falling. You were right. She’d written and rewritten that sentence a thousand times, curled up on the window seat from nightfall till the early hours of the morning. Trying to find the right words. You were right. You were right. Crier remembered everything about that first day, the day she’d made Ayla her new handmaiden. She’d taken Ayla to the gardens, the air perfumed with salt lavender and seaflowers, the taste of the sea on the back of Crier’s tongue, the sound of waves crashing beyond the last row of flowers, beyond the cliffs. In the gardens, Crier had looked at Ayla and, gods, she’d had no idea, no idea. At the time, she’d been half intrigued, half embarrassed Ayla had seen her cry. All she knew was she wanted to get closer. To read Ayla like a good book. And Ayla, frowning, eyes distant, had said: Even way out there past the sky, so far away that we can’t even imagine it, things work the same. Everything’s just bodies in orbit, like here. Pushing and pulling.