Ayla retrieved the bone-handled knife from where she’d stuck it in the clay behind her. “You have this?”

“I . . .” Crier’s jaw worked. “I don’t need that. You’re human. I can overpower you easily.”

Ayla felt her face grow hot. Not out of anger; she’d never heard a less convincing threat. But because, judging by Crier’s expression, they were both recalling the same memory.

You’re an Automa. It’s your nature to overpower.

The look on Crier’s face, like Ayla had struck her. Then—

Then—

“I’m not going to turn you in,” said Ayla. She flipped the knife in her hand and held it out to Crier handle first.

Crier’s eyes flicked to the knife. To Ayla’s face. To the knife again. She took it gingerly, watching Ayla the whole time, like she thought it was a trick. But Ayla let her take it, let her sit back and slip the knife through one of the loops on her belt, secure at her hip.

Then they were just . . . staring at each other. Again.

This time, Crier broke the silence. “You didn’t stab me last time,” she said. “But you were going to.”

A pang in Ayla’s chest. “I thought I was,” she whispered.

She assumed the next question would be: Why?

But Crier asked, “Why didn’t you?”

“I . . .” Gods, how could she answer that? She didn’t know herself. Or she did, but it was too messy to put into words. Because of the tide pool. The key to the music room. Because of the night you whispered into the darkness between us: How can I help? Because I told you to learn more about Kinok and you did. Because you are brilliant and have never once used it to cause harm. Because you surprise me. Because I am not done being surprised by you.

Once, in Kalla-den, at one of the stalls that sold black-market Made objects, Ayla had played with a trinket shaped like a little gold telescope. If you peered into one end, you could see grains of colored glass shifting and forming new patterns. The grains changed color, rippling blue, red, orange, rainbow, back again. Sometimes they formed images: a red flower on a field of gold, a yellow cat’s eye, an emerald-green leaf. Never the same pattern or image twice. Knowing Crier felt like that. Especially toward the end, those final weeks, when Ayla had begun to realize—and refused to admit, even to herself—that she would not be able to kill her. Every time she looked at Crier, a new pattern. A new picture. A display of new and stunning light.

Crier was waiting. Her gaze was steady, but there was a tightness to her mouth, her shoulders. Like she was bracing for a blow.

“I don’t think . . .” Ayla chose her words carefully. “I don’t think this world would be better for your death.” No, come on, don’t be a coward—if nothing else, for this, you owe her honesty. “I don’t think I would be.”