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It was always better to do what you knew was right than what was kind.
Ayla’s face was fascinating. Crier had seen her barely twice and she already knew this like she knew the constellations.
“Is there anything you wish to learn?” What she meant was: What do you find interesting? Were there certain words or ideas that made Ayla’s frown smooth out, that made her eyes brighten? Crier wanted to study her like a map. Draw an easy path between all the specific yet scattered points of her.
She had known Ayla for less than an hour total, and already she knew what she wanted. She wanted those dark eyes, that quiet, sharp-edged intensity, the evasive responses that she knew, she knew, would give her yet another sleepless night. Another night spent wondering and guessing and—dreaming. Or something close to it.
Crier had no idea which she would rather hear: No, you are the perfect Automa, or . . . Yes. You are different. I see you.
If longing is madness, then none of us are sane.
“It means I saw the way your Lady Crier looks at you,” said Storme. “It means I saw the way you look at her. The way you spoke to her. The way you almost touch her, sometimes.”
She had to remind herself to breathe. Ayla preferred it when she breathed. Breathe for Ayla.
“If a spider weaves her web to catch flies and catches a butterfly instead, what does the spider do?” Benjy stayed silent. “She eats the butterfly,” said Ayla.
