They ate and spoke softly, in sleepy, half-finished thoughts. Crier sat there, careful not to get too close to the fire, wary of the light refracting in her eyes. She racked her brain, trying to think of anywhere else Tourmaline could be. She reexamined the visions she’d seen, the memories she’d tumbled through, searching for any sort of clue. . . .

If I make it through the night, I’ll meet you at the Queen’s Cove, Leo had said.

Crier bit her lip hard, fighting back a swell of foolish hope. The memories in the locket ended when Leo gave it to Clara the night their village was attacked—if they’d found each other again, surely he would have taken it back and continued to add memories. So . . . Leo and Clara had never seen each other again after the scene on the lakeshore. They had never reunited at the Queen’s Cove. But what if Leo had survived the night? What if he’d gone to the Queen’s Cove anyway? Crier could picture it so vividly: Leo, injured, dragging himself into a rowboat. Pushing off the shore. Dawn breaking across the lake. If he’d made it to the Queen’s Cove, but for some reason Yann and Siena were already gone . . . What if the Queen’s Cove, not the ruined village, was his final resting place?

It felt too much like something out of a faerie story. A tragic ending. But Crier had already come this far—she might as well visit the cove, just in case. It was on the Varnian side of the lake, a bit of a hike. But under the cover of darkness . . . she could be there and back by dawn if she moved quickly. She had no rowboat, but she’d be faster on foot anyway, following the curve of the shore. Crier stared into the center of the smoldering campfire, the tiny spot where the flames burned black, calculating. There were the border guards to worry about. Automa soldiers of Rabu and Varn posted in their stone watchtowers, scanning the shores, the bluffs, the water. If Crier got caught—if the guards realized she wasn’t just any young Automa girl but the sovereign’s runaway daughter—

Erren was one of thousands. To find them—to save them—I’d risk walking into a trap. I’d risk just about anything.

What would Ayla do?

Crier almost smiled. She knew the answer.

Ayla would do the reckless thing.

The reckless thing, as was usually the case, started out all right. Crier waited until the rebels had doused the fire and curled up on their sleeping mats, settling in for the night. She waited, counting her own heartbeats, forcing herself to be patient. One hundred beats. One hundred twenty. One hundred forty. She waited until she heard eight human heartbeats slow, eight rhythms of breathing evening out, a quiet rush like faraway ocean tides. Then, silent as a shadow, she slipped out from under her own blankets. She picked up her boots, her bare feet soundless on the pebbly ground, and snuck out from beneath the overhang of rock.