At dawn, she woke for good when a trio of human handmaidens swept into her room. She scrambled upright, startled, but they didn’t even glance at her. One flung open the curtains, flooding the room with pale blue light; one, arms piled with dresses, started laying them out at the foot of the bed; the last yanked back a silk privacy screen that had been obscuring a corner of the room, revealing a sunken bath and a big copper water tank with a spigot shaped like a peacock.

“What’s . . . happening . . . ?” said Ayla, already dreading the answer.

Over the next hour, she was bathed within an inch of her life. Her hair was washed three times, her finger- and toenails trimmed, her face and body scrubbed with a soapy cloth until she thought her skin might peel off, the bathwater turning gray with what looked like five years of grime. When the water finally began to grow cold, the handmaidens pulled her out and rubbed her down with an oil that left her skin soft and gleaming, smelling faintly of almonds. Ayla hated how much she didn’t hate it. Then, after she’d been thoroughly dried, she was shoved into white cotton undergarments that felt weightless, so soft and light, nothing like the rough, itchy undergarments she’d always worn. After that, she was herded over to a mirror while the handmaidens held up dress after dress against her body, squinting, scrutinizing, somehow arriving at the decision that Ayla would look best in deep blue. Ayla opened her mouth to protest—she’d never liked wearing dresses—but a sharp look from one of the handmaidens, a tall girl with pale skin, shut her up. She allowed herself to be dressed, her hair oiled and combed, even though the comb kept snagging on her curls and it hurt like hell. When she examined her reflection, it felt like looking at Storme: someone whose face distantly resembled her own but was not the same. Glowing skin, fine clothes, hair sleek and shiny as a sealskin. Ayla couldn’t help but think of her time as a handmaiden, doing all this for—

Crier.

Drawing a bath, drizzling various sweet-smelling oils into the water, washing Crier’s hair, running soapy hands through it. Helping her out of the claw-footed tub, eyes averted, handing her a towel. Brushing her hair, breathing in the scent of roses, lavender, cloves. Turning away as Crier slipped into her undergarments. Helping her into the latest ridiculously complicated dress.

“All right,” said the pale handmaiden, appraising Ayla with her hands on her hips. “I think you’re presentable.” It was the first time any of them had addressed Ayla directly.

“Glad to hear it,” said Ayla.

The handmaiden ignored her tone. “You have been summoned to the aviary for an audience with the queen. You are to join her as soon as you’ve finished breakfast.”

“Breakfast?”

As if on cue, the bedroom door opened again and a kitchen boy entered carrying a massive platter covered with a white cloth. He set it down on the small table beside the bed and scurried back out, closing the door behind him.