The Mirror King (The Orphan Queen, #2)(57)

“Forgive me if I find that difficult.” My hand ached from gripping my sword hilt. “It isn’t easy to trust or be close to someone when the person I love won’t even follow his own heart.”

Oh, saints. I’d said that out loud. And now the words hung between us, heavier than the dust motes of his past.

His expression stiffened into that proud, bored mask he’d worn as a prince, and he spun and strode toward the door.

For a stuttering heartbeat, I almost let him go.

But I took a step after him, and my fingertips brushed his sleeve. We both stopped moving. “I want to trust you. It’s just that everyone I’ve ever trusted has betrayed me in some way. Even”—not you—“Black Knife.”

He faced me, hair half hanging in his eyes, shadowing them. All the fire of his argument had drained away, and now he was just a boy who happened to be a king before he was ready.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. It wasn’t fair of me to judge you.” He glanced at my hand still on his sleeve, and I jerked away. “I suppose I’m not as deserving of your trust as I thought.”

Trust me. Forgive me. Tell me. How could he ask so much?

“I want to trust you.”

“I want to deserve it.” He shifted his weight toward me and drew his sword, letting a beam of light glance off the flat of the blade. “We have to work together. I know we can. That’s why you’re wearing those clothes. And why I’m still alive. We have the same goals, and if we work together, we can achieve them. Imagine what could happen if we stopped fighting each other and started fighting our enemies. You and me together.”

My stomach flip-flopped. His sword loose in his grasp was such a familiar sight, the stance and grip and confidence. Only now, his face was uncovered and he was a king, and he’d be married in a few hours. He’d never be Black Knife again.

He sheathed his sword and sighed. “I know I promised a lesson, and kings should always keep their promises. But I don’t think it would be appropriate . . .” His throat jumped when he swallowed. “Perhaps James would be a more suitable replacement.”

My heart squeezed, but I pushed down the anguish and resentment and forced a note of aloofness into my voice. “I’m sure he would be.”

His hand strayed near mine. “Wilhelmina, I am sorry.”

I stepped backward. “You made a promise to your father. I know.” I withdrew farther, deeper into the storage building. “I’m sure you have a lot to do to prepare for your wedding. Please don’t let me take up any more of your time.”

He drew himself straighter and vanished behind his kingly mask. “Good night, Wilhelmina.”

When he was gone, the door secured behind him, I swung my sword around and caught a pile of folded tablecloths. Linen and lace flew into the air as I grabbed tarnished silver candlesticks and hurled them across the room. A pile of plates, a box of wineglasses, a huge serving platter: they all clattered and smashed against the far side of the floor.

A high keening tore from my throat as I ripped more and more junk off the shelves and from crates. I pushed over shelves and threw boxes across the room, filling the floor with everything that had been shoved aside.

My arms and legs were shaking by the time I was finished. The room was in ruins, with broken trash strewn across the now-dented floor. Tablecloths lay like shrouds.

“It helps, doesn’t it? Breaking things.” The wraith boy stood across the room, dark brown hair shading his eyes as he surveyed the wreckage. His skin was brown, and his features knifelike. It seemed his appearance had settled, and he looked too much like me for comfort.

How had he escaped his closet?

“Go away.” My voice was hoarse from screaming.

“A man came to my door last night. He told me you’re sad. Sad. Bad. Mad. How—”

“Leave!” I hurled a splintering crate at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Very well.” He sidestepped the crate and bowed low, his tattered clothes fluttering. “What you want is the only thing that matters.”

Then he vanished, leaving nothing but the odor of wraith and the awful feeling that he’d known I was upset, and had come to help.

Wraith help. That was one thing I didn’t need.





TWENTY


THE BELLS BEGAN pealing at dawn.

Even in my chambers where I prepared for the wedding, I could almost hear the words that rode on the constant ringing. King Tobiah will save us. The Mirror King will drive away the wraith. King Tobiah and Queen Meredith . . .

I resisted the urge to cover my ears while a maid plaited my hair into an intricate knot, with tendrils softening the harsh lines of my face. She used cosmetics to conceal the circles under my eyes, and shadow the lids. When she used another powder to highlight my cheekbones she said something about me looking beautiful, but in the mirror, all I saw was my face. And the wraith boy’s face.

Morning light shifted, and a small lunch was served.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Theresa asked. Her plate was already clean.

I glanced at mine, still full, and slid it across the table to her.

With a suspicious frown, she cleaned my plate, too. I turned my attention out the window, toward the clear sky and the seemingly endless forest behind the palace. Evergreens twisted between the cold, bare trees. The mountains were deep blue, with wisps of clouds washing down between them.