The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(41)

With affection,

Wil



I folded the letter, sealed it, and wrote Connor’s name on the back. Then, trying not to think about how I was intentionally delaying my return to the Ospreys, I cleaned pens and organized ink jars until the clock tower chimed an hour before midnight.

Melanie knocked. “Ready?”

I nodded, and we changed into black sweaters and trousers, armed ourselves, and slipped out into the darkness.

Without speaking, we made our way through Hawksbill and climbed over the wall, then kept to the streets in the market district. Perhaps she was working on an excuse to break away once we delivered the report.

It didn’t matter. When I wiggled loose the brick at the back of Laurence’s Bakery, there was already a note inside.

Both of you to the Peacock Inn. Bring the report.—P.L.



My heart sank. Patrick arranging a meeting in the middle of our deception—that could only mean bad news.

While Melanie fitted the brick back into the hole, I checked the area for observers.

A dark silhouette stood out against a mirror. Black Knife raised his hand in a wave, and I could almost hear him calling me “nameless girl” and his snide comments about my entourage.

“Ready?” Melanie pulled up her hood. “I guess it’s a good thing we both came after all, or one of us would have had to go back and fetch the other.”

“Sure.” When I glanced up again, Black Knife was gone. I’d seen him only because he’d allowed it.

That answered the question of whether he was following me.

We’d have to be extra careful on our way in and out of the palace from now on.

“Is something wrong?” Melanie touched my shoulder. “You look distracted.”

“I’m fine. I just thought I saw someone.” Why didn’t I tell her about Black Knife? Well, she wasn’t exactly honest with me, either. “Let’s make sure we’re hard to track, just in case.”

She smirked. “As though we’re ever not.”

And still Black Knife had spotted us. We’d have to change our drop location.

On our way through Thornton, we threaded through crowds, lifting hats and scarves to disguise ourselves from rooftop pursuit. I jostled someone, nicking a silver bracelet as I apologized; the Ospreys could sell it and buy the younger boys new boots. Once we entered White Flag, though, we kept our hands to ourselves. People here were as poor as we were.

There were no gas lamps in the Flags, which meant most of the decent people headed indoors soon after dark, if they could manage. Only gangs, drunks, and homeless people stayed on the streets at night, and to the latter we tossed the hats and scarves we’d picked up in Thornton. All throughout our walk, I kept an eye on the rooftops, watching for the familiar silhouette of Black Knife. But there was no one, at least as far as I could see.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

The Peacock Inn wasn’t much to look at. The brick building boasted deteriorating columns and fading peacock feathers painted on the shutters. The windows here were just holes, no glass, so the patrons’ shouts and laughter and boasting fell from the inn like punches. Along its western face, the required mirrors were cracked, their reflections distorted.

I checked the rooftops one last time as we ducked inside the hot, noisy taproom. The stench of smoke and stale beer made my stomach roll as we wove through the crowd. A man’s hand strayed toward my leg, but retreated when I flicked my dagger from its sheath.

“I hate coming in this way,” Melanie muttered as we made our way to the stairwell at the back of the taproom.

“Me too.” Besides a few battered weapons and trinkets, there wasn’t even anything good to steal. But with Black Knife out there, we needed to stick to the ground. We needed not to draw attention to ourselves.

The stairs groaned and creaked as we ascended. A heavy, musty scent huddled on the top floor, all dust and disuse; lots of people didn’t stay the night here, but came for the cheap beer and general camaraderie.

Weariness tugged at me as I knocked in a quick pattern, then pushed open the door.

A single candle lit the room: Patrick studied a stack of papers by its light, the knifelike planes of his face made sharper in the shadows, while Theresa and Connor dozed sitting up on the bed. Tattered blankets and old clothes covered them.

“I wasn’t expecting you for a few more hours.” Patrick didn’t even look up from his work. We’d receive his attention only when necessary.

“We both went to the drop,” Melanie said. “We came right over.”

“It takes two of you to deliver a report now?” Patrick shoved his papers to the other end of the desk and looked up at us, palm flat up and waiting.

Theresa and Connor yawned and sat straight at the sound of voices. Theresa’s eyes were bloodshot, and the skin around them puffy and irritated. She’d been crying. Connor had, too.

A chill swept through me as I dropped the report into Patrick’s hand. “What’s wrong? Why did you send for us?”

“There’s been some news.” He cracked the report seal and began reading, ignoring the curious way Melanie looked at him. Whatever his news was, we wouldn’t hear any more about it until he was finished with our report. It was bad, though, whatever it was. Undercurrents of unease flowed from all of us—except Patrick. He was as stoic as ever.