She started off into the crowd, dodging the other dancers, making a beeline for Benjy and Junn. She didn’t even know what she wanted from Benjy—an apology? An acknowledgment of his own hypocrisy? Maybe she just wanted to yell at him, to drag him away and say: How dare you? Acting like you’ve got the moral high ground, when in reality—

“Ayla.”

Fingers wrapped around her wrist, an iron grip.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Lady Dear said through her teeth. Her expression was pleasant, as if she were only saying hello. “Do not let your emotions get the better of you. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it is, it does not matter.” She tightened her grip on Ayla’s wrist. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Not here. It will reflect badly on the queen.”

“But—”

“There’s a door in the northern wall,” she said, still smiling. “It leads to a garden that is sure to be empty. Go stay there until you’ve calmed down.”

“Let go of me,” Ayla muttered, and Lady Dear finally let go of her wrist. She was so angry she could have pulled a dagger on Lady Dear right then and there, but some modicum of sense remained in her. So she left Lady Dear behind without a second glance, cutting across the courtyard again, but this time not toward Benjy. There was indeed a small wooden door in the northern wall of the courtyard, very plain, most likely a servants’ shortcut. She made for it with a desperation that was difficult not to release on the nearest person. The door wasn’t locked, and Ayla was able to slip through.

Slamming it behind her, she threw her back against the wall and heaved a few breaths. Tears pricked her eyes.

Crier. Benjy. The queen.

It was too much. Her beautiful clothes felt waterlogged, like the silk weighed a hundred pounds. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stand all this Automa finery. This fantasy, glittering gold on the surface and rotting beneath, poison to the core.

She lurched forward into the new darkness—the light from the paper lanterns didn’t reach here—and saw that she was standing at the lip of a large sunken garden. Stone tiers formed a basin of concentric circles, at the bottom of which was a small sculpture garden. It looked like each tier held a different type of flower, but it was too dark to make out the details as she stumbled down the stone steps, needing only to get away, to be alone and unlooked at, to breathe. Her thoughts still burned with the image of Benjy laughing and waltzing in public with the leech queen. The hypocrisy of it all.

No. She knew it wasn’t just the hypocrisy that stung.

It was the wanting.

The stone steps were rough and uneven. She’d just reached the very last step when she tripped, pitching forward, stomach swooping horribly. Ayla braced herself for a nasty fall—but it never came. She’d been caught by a pair of hands on her waist, holding her upright.