The Mirror King (The Orphan Queen, #2)(25)

James rested his forearms on the desk as he leaned toward me. “You aren’t a secret anymore. You can sign if you want.” He glanced at the monster of a letter, his unspoken words plain in his expression: I could try again.

“I don’t know what my signature looks like,” I whispered. “I know priests’, generals’, merchants’. Even yours and Tobiah’s. But not my own.”

“And your handwriting?” He studied the letter, tracing a wild flourish with the tip of his finger. Ink smudged onto his skin. “After you were taken to prison that night, I said I’d found samples of handwritings. I asked which was yours.”

“None of them.” They’d all been practice, and because sometimes I simply needed to feel a pen in my hand, and the glide of tines on paper.

James’s smile was faint but encouraging as he took my abandoned pen and cleaned off the drying ink, leaving black smears across the cloth. He offered the pen to me, handle first, as though it were a knife or dagger. “What does your writing look like, Wilhelmina?”

“I don’t know.” The pen fit in my hand, but it felt like a new and unfamiliar thing now. I didn’t know what to do with it. “I’ve spent so long writing as everyone else, I’ve never learned my own handwriting. Even as a child, before all this, I mimicked my tutor’s hand.”

Was I really that pathetic?

“I don’t even know my own handwriting.” The mess of paper filled my vision, blurring as I blinked back tears.

“Maybe it’s time you learn.”

“It’s such a stupid thing to worry about.” I placed the pen on the table. “I’ve gone my whole life without thinking about it. Why should it bother me now, when there are so many other things—more important things—going on?”

James shook his head and slid my writing supplies to the other side of the desk. “I don’t know you very well. Like Tobiah, there’s a lot that you keep hidden. But I consider myself intelligent and observant, which means I’ve been able to determine a few things about you over the weeks you’ve been at the palace—in your various disguises.”

I waited.

“You take pressure very well. Now that I know your identity, I can only imagine what a trial it must have been sharing a meal with military men, or meeting Prince Colin. Or even just coming here, knowing Tobiah might recognize you from the One-Night War. I’ve seen you improvise. I’ve seen you fight. And you’ve endured Lady Chey’s best efforts to force you to leave.” He dragged in a breath. “But not even the strongest can defend against everything. Not forever.

“You have a million different things trying to stop you, Wilhelmina. A million different things chipping away at your armor. I don’t know this Patrick of yours, and I’m in no position to help you win back your kingdom. Your romantic entanglements are your own business, and I don’t know what to do about your pale friend down the hall. In truth, I’m allowed to take very little action, except what my cousin commands, or when his life is in danger. I’m of limited use to you, but there may be one thing I can help you with.”

It seemed to me he sold himself short. But I leaned forward. “I don’t need to be rescued, James. I can do this on my own.”

“Yes.” He smiled gently. “I’ve heard that about you. And I don’t want to rescue you. I want to give you an option.”

“For what?”

“Tell me what happened on the balcony the other morning, when my people tried to take you to safety.”

My jaw clenched. “I didn’t want to be taken anywhere. I had to help.”

“Wilhelmina.” My name came out a sigh. “You froze. You panicked. Your wraith boy came to kill anyone who touched you because you were so afraid.”

Was that what had happened? The wraith boy had been chasing Patrick until the guard had grabbed me.

“I’ve never seen you panic, not once.”

I studied the grains on the desk. Of course he hadn’t seen me panic. I’d been in the wraithland alone. Only the wraith boy had seen what I’d done, how weak I’d been when the locusts arrived.

“Was it because—” James hesitated. “After you were captured in Hawksbill, when the men searched you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I heard you throw up in your cell after I’d walked away. I know about the bruises.” He glanced at my arm, healed now. “The other morning, the guards grabbing you reminded you of”—he hesitated—“a situation that made you feel violated.”

My jaw hurt from gritting my teeth.

Even more gently, he said, “It took away your sense of control.”

“They took advantage of my incapacitation.” The words came out like venom.

“I understand.”

But he couldn’t. Not unless he’d ever been groped between the legs and his assailant justified it by insisting there could be a hidden weapon there. Not unless he’d ever been surrounded by frightened people who mistook his identity, and wanted to touch him for hope or luck or curiosity. Not unless someone had crept into his bedroom at night, threatening him.

“It’s all right that you feel this way. It’s all right if you hate the people who did this to you.”

Did I hate them? Besides Prince Colin, I didn’t even know their names.