She was so busy craning her neck to see the birds flying around at the highest point of the domed ceiling, she didn’t realize the queen was already here until Maris pushed her forward, hissing, “Don’t keep her waiting.”

Ayla stumbled forward, following the stepping-stones to the platform. Queen Junn was seated, facing away from the door to the aviary, her form hidden by the high back of the chair. A spindly little table between the two chairs held a silver tea tray, a teapot, two cups. Until Ayla clambered up onto the platform, all she could see of the queen was her hand: she was stirring the contents of one of the teacups with her finger.

“Ayla,” Queen Junn greeted her.

Ayla curtsied, perfunctory. “You summoned me?”

“Sit.”

She sat down across from the queen.

“Have a cup of tea, Ayla.”

Queen Junn was drinking heartstone, deep red. The second teacup was filled with what looked like regular herbal tea. Ayla picked it up, took a sip, and grimaced when it burned her tongue. When she looked up, the queen was watching her. In the yellow sunlight of the aviary the queen looked oddly young. Much softer than she had last night in the throne room—or a few weeks ago in Hesod’s palace, first in candlelight, then under a flat gray sky. She wasn’t wearing a gown this time. In fact, she was in pants and a shirt that looked almost like Ayla’s old handmaiden uniform, if the uniform had been green and made of silk.

“I’m glad you came to me, Ayla,” said Queen Junn. “I’m glad you sought refuge in Thalen. Or at least sought out your brother.”

Ayla tried not to react visibly, but the queen saw through her.

“Yes, I know who you are,” she said, amused. “Storme’s twin sister. Ayla.”

“He told you, then.”

“Even before he told me, I had my suspicions. The two of you share a passing resemblance, but your mannerisms . . . It was like dining with Storme and his reflection. You make the same expressions, though his are more muted; he’s far better at controlling his emotions. You lack subtlety, handmaiden.” Junn gave Ayla a pointed look, as if to say, You should improve on that.

It rankled. Ayla remembered Storme’s own words the night she’d confronted him in the palace hallway, close to tears, begging for answers: How did you end up in Varn? How did you become adviser to the queen?

Why didn’t you come back for me?

Storme, infuriatingly calm, had said: Stars and skies, Ayla. Lower your voice. Control yourself.

“Your eyebrows . . . ,” the queen was saying, arching one of her own. “The twist of your mouth when you’re displeased. Yes—like that. He does the same thing. And I knew he’d lost a sister in his home country. The first moment I saw you, I wondered.”

“Then . . . you’ll let me stay here until he comes back?” Ayla asked. She didn’t care for the queen’s musings, the way her words circled like seabirds. Why couldn’t powerful people ever just get to the point?