“Do you think Rowan would want this?” Ayla whispered. “This compromise?”

They both flinched. It was the first time either of them had said Rowan’s name aloud since her death.

Rowan, their guardian, their savior.

“I don’t know what Rowan would want,” said Benjy. “Whether she’d tell us to cooperate with the leech queen or not. But she’d want us to stick together. So I’ll do the skin-crawling thing. With you.”

Ayla’s eyes stung. “Yeah,” she said roughly. “Yeah. With you, always, no matter what. Till the dirt and then beyond. But—but what you said—you’re wrong.” Her fists were clenched. She unclenched them, flexing her fingers. “You’re wrong. I don’t—I could never want Crier. Never love her. I could never love a leech.”

Benjy didn’t answer for a long time. At last, all he said was, “All right, Ayla,” and he said it so gently, she wanted to hit him, or cry.

Lessons began the next day after breakfast.

After the handmaidens had cleared away the breakfast dishes and scurried from the room, Ayla sat on the cloudlike bed, waiting. She’d never done anything like this before. The closest she’d come was sitting in on Crier’s endless tutoring sessions in the palace library, but those had been so dull—advanced mathematics, diplomacy, the minutiae of events that happened a thousand years ago in kingdoms Ayla had barely heard of. She’d done everything possible to not listen.

She didn’t know what to expect. But it certainly wasn’t Lady Dear.

Ayla hated her on sight.

She was an Automa noblewoman, and everything about her advertised it: the deep violet gown; the jewelry dripping from her throat, her wrists, her ears; the gem-encrusted rings on each finger; the white porcelain comb holding her hair in place. Her skin was the light brown of a riverbed, her collarbone dusted with something that glittered in the lamplight, like she’d smeared stardust across her skin.

“Get that look off your face,” was the first thing Lady Dear said after introducing herself, looking down her nose at Ayla. She was older, perhaps nearing fifty, though it was hard to tell with Automae.

Ayla tried to smooth out her expression. Queen Junn’s words came to mind: You lack subtlety.

“Pay attention, girl,” said Lady Dear, and her voice was less cold, more weary, than Ayla might have expected. “Right now, her majesty thinks you could be useful. I suggest you keep it that way.”

4

Under the weight of what Faye had told her, all thoughts of her own termination seemed insignificant. Crier had to tell her father about Kinok’s plans. If what Faye had said was true, if Kinok planned to destroy the Iron Heart, it would be enough to make her father understand exactly what Kinok was capable of—that the Anti-Reliance Movement wasn’t just a movement. For Kinok, it meant absolute control, absolute power. The fate of Automakind in his hands. Once the sovereign understood that, of course he wouldn’t force his daughter to marry a monster. The wedding would be called off, Kinok would be arrested, and it would all be over.