“I feel like a traveling performer,” Ayla said, inspecting herself in the mirror. “The ones who cartwheel through the streets and walk on stilts.” She huffed. “Maybe, instead of attending this feast, I could tie the bedsheets into a rope and you three could lower me out the window? It’s only a few stories to the ground. I bet I could make it.”

“Oh, hush, you,” said Maris, cackling. “It’s just courtiers and merchant types, dull as anything. You’ll be fine. Besides, it’s too late to escape—the feast’s already begun.”

Like the Maker’s Festival two days before, the Queen’s Feast was held in an open-air courtyard, though this one was smaller and tucked away within the labyrinthine sprawl of the palace, inaccessible to the public. There were two sunken pools, each with a sculpture in the center: two naked women carved from obsidian stone facing each other from opposite sides of the courtyard. One was an Automa, eyes painted gold, arms spread as if in welcome. The other was human, hands curled around the handle of a black stone ax.

There were white rose petals strewn across the flagstones again, strings of paper lanterns casting a warm glow. Along one edge of the courtyard, a massive banquet table was already laden with platters of food. Dusk had deepened to night by the time Ayla entered the courtyard, the moon a silver coin, and about half the guests—mostly Automa, but Ayla saw a few humans among them—were seated, feasting. The other half were mingling in the open courtyard, some swaying to the music of a single harpist, some just talking. Ayla didn’t see Queen Junn anywhere, but then, the queen had a flair for the dramatic; she would probably wait until exactly the right moment to make her entrance. Benjy was also conspicuously absent. Had he not been invited?

Ayla was glad for the dark, for the soft yellow light of the lanterns overhead and the candles lining the banquet table. She didn’t want anyone looking at her too closely. The lanternlight, softening and obscuring, was a kindness.

Her stomach growled. And Ayla remembered: tonight, she could eat.

She filled a plate and began to pick at it slowly. If she’d thought her daily breakfasts were rich, they were nothing compared to this. Here, at the banquet table, she had to pace herself, taking small delicate bites. But if she’d been alone . . . she would have filled her plate three times over, eaten until it felt like she’d never eat again. Ayla had spent years never knowing where the next meal would come from; so many times she’d eaten nothing but stale bread or half-rotted fish for days on end. Now she was sitting at a queen’s banquet eating white, flaky fish, meat that practically fell off the bone, sweet bread with butter and honey, some sort of stewed gourd that looked odd but tasted incredible.

“You are Rabunian?” came a voice from beside her.

It took a second for Ayla to realize the Automa was addressing her.