The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(34)

The streets were busy, even hours after dusk. With mirrors covering every western surface, the occasional gas lamp was much more effective than it would have been alone. Light shone everywhere.

“Black Knife will save us from the wraith!” shouted a man holding a rotting wood board up in the air. The words painted onto the wood repeated his claims about Black Knife, though they were misspelled and several of the letters were drawn backward. “Black Knife will journey to the wraithland! He will battle the wraith and free us from our impending doom!”

Though most people stayed clear of the man, a few stepped in as though to ask questions—and then pulled back when a police officer approached.

“I have a right to speak!” the man yelled. “You can’t stop me.”

“If you have information on the vigilante Black Knife . . .”

Their voices faded into the din of the crowd as I moved past.

When I reached Laurence’s Bakery half an hour later, I slipped into an alley, pulled my cap toward my eyes, and climbed onto the roof. With my body pressed against a chimney, I scanned the area to make sure I was alone. Nothing. Just starlight and mirrors and the pale glow of the city slowly falling to sleep.

I darted south, keeping myself small and quick so the mirrors wouldn’t catch me. It wasn’t hard to retrace Melanie’s steps; my memories were sharp and clear.

I leapt onto the roof of a chandlery and stopped.

This was it. I was standing in the last place I’d seen Melanie before Black Knife interrupted my pursuit. Now what? Though I was on my way out of Thornton, the Flags were enormous, and there were three of them. She could have gone anywhere, even doubled back into Thornton or Greenstone.

A deep voice came from behind me. “You’re just everywhere, aren’t you?”

I spun and had my daggers drawn before his question was half finished. “Black Knife.”

“Nameless girl.” He stood on the edge of the roof I’d just left, with only a small jump between us. His hands hung at his sides, no weapons, but his crossbow and sword were only a quick reach away. “Again, without your entourage. I know you’re not out here to stop thieves or gangs, so you can just tell me the truth. What are you doing?”

My grip on my daggers didn’t slacken despite his apparent ease. “Taking a walk.”

“Most people use the street.”

“Standing on a roof isn’t illegal, is it?”

“There was a robbery in Greenstone a couple of weeks ago. Right around the time I saw you, actually.”

“And you think I’m responsible?” I feigned affront.

His gaze dipped to my weapons before he sat, letting his legs dangle from the roof. The leather of his boots shone in the weak lamplight from below, and the silk kept his face perfectly concealed. Still, with the relaxed set of his shoulders and the easy way his hands rested on his knees, he looked comfortable. Cocky. “I don’t think a robbery like that is beyond your skill.”

“A compliment and an insult in one sentence.”

“Would you like to sit?” He leaned his weight onto one arm, glancing down into the quiet alley. “People rarely look up, but we’re not the only ones to use the rooftops as a second street. I’d rather not be seen.”

Cautiously, I found solid footing and crouched, keeping my daggers in my hands. “Are you following me?”

“How can I when I don’t know who you are?” The words sounded like a sneer.

“That makes us even. I don’t know who you are, either.”

“Good.”

What did he want with me? “Why do you wear a mask?”

“To hide my face. That’s the function of a mask, after all.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why do you hide your face?”

He went still for a moment, almost a statue’s shadow. “I think the more pressing question is this: why don’t you wear a mask, considering your suspicious proximity to crime?”

I repeated Patrick’s belief: “The best mask is a face no one will remember.”

“Oh,” he said, and looked at me as though I were a mystery. “I don’t see how anyone could forget your face.”

Compliments again. Why couldn’t he just chase me, like normal? Unless—no, he couldn’t know me from the palace. If he recognized me, I wouldn’t still be there. “Are we going to fight?” I asked.

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly.” But fighting would be a lot more straightforward.

He shrugged. “Then we don’t have to. As you said, standing on a roof isn’t illegal, and I can’t prove you’re responsible for the warehouse robbery.”

“Is that how it works? You prove that the people you capture were breaking the law?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about the rest of the time? What if you caught someone about to break into that warehouse, but they hadn’t actually succeeded yet?”

“I’d bind them and leave them where the city police would find them.”

“With no proof they’d done—or were about to do—anything?” When he didn’t respond, I said, “Who gave you the authority? If you have your heart set on stopping violence and crimes, there are less dramatic ways to do it. Or do you enjoy the reactions to your theatrics?”