The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(75)

It wasn’t real. I’d been dreaming.

I shoved my blankets to the bottom of my bed and sat up to braid my hair. A black sweater with a hood, silk scarf tucked into my shirt, trousers, and a few of my favorite weapons later, I was out the window. I told myself I was going to return to the warehouse and make sure there wasn’t actually evidence of my being there. But by the time I was over the Hawksbill wall and scanning the Thornton skyline, I admitted the truth:

I was looking for Black Knife.

The city was quiet this late, two or three hours after midnight. Thornton was silent, and even the Flags stirred with but a fraction of their usual activity. Black Knife must have been working for hours already, and I had no idea where to find him now. In the week I’d gone on patrols with him, he’d taken us in different paths every night. If he had a routine, he hadn’t shared it with me.

With no better idea of where to start, I planted myself in the street where he’d stopped me from killing a man. The area was dark, with no gas lamps to push back the shadows. I shivered, wishing I’d worn a jacket. A sinister thought bubbled up in the back of my head: I could tell the air to warm itself for me.

The idea fizzled as quickly as it arrived. After what I’d done in the wraithland, I never wanted to use magic again.

Since I’d experienced the wraithland, everything was different.

A shadow peeled from the others. Black Knife gestured upward.

I followed him onto the rooftops, relishing the feel of using my muscles. This was a familiar exertion.

When we stood atop a tea shop, Black Knife studied me without speaking. Shadows cloaked his eyes as he circled me—I turned only my head to watch him—and there was something heavy and thoughtful about the way he moved. Then, he must have worked out whatever he’d been trying to decide, because he motioned for me to follow.

We took off at a quick walk at first, and then faster until we were running through the city, as though on a chase. He leapt; I leapt. He ducked under an overhanging beam; I ducked, too. Over apothecaries and chandleries and inns, we raced into Thornton where we dodged the bright streetlamps and mirrors. Cold air stung the back of my throat, and breath misted white.

Out here in the city, I felt real. Alive. There were always questions with Black Knife, but still, I knew what to do: we squabbled, fought criminals and wraith beasts, and made the darkness our cloak and armor. Though we constantly threw ourselves into danger, these nighttime excursions felt safe.

Safer than my life with the Ospreys, or at the palace, or my uncertain future as queen.

Black Knife vanished around the corner of a bank.

I followed only seconds later, but he was gone. Gasping for breath, I paused under a stone-and-glass breezeway that connected two shops, and checked the dim rooftops. There was nothing.

Darkness gaped above me as gloved hands reached down through a trapdoor in the breezeway. I laughed and took his hands, and after some pulling and hushed laughter, we both tumbled inside the breezeway. He pushed the door shut.

Ambient light bled through the glass windows, which rattled in the wind. The breezeway wasn’t large, only wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and about five strides long where it arched over an alley.

From the center of the walk, I could see several familiar shops, plus the roof of Laurence’s Bakery.

So that was how he’d caught me so often.

“What happened to your mask?” Black Knife stood at the other end of the breezeway, unstrapping the crossbow from his hip, but he was watching me. “Did you lose it?”

“It got dirty in the wraithland.”

“Hmph.” He dug through a pouch on his belt and tossed me a small paper-wrapped parcel. “I brought you a new one anyway. It will fit better.”

I snatched the package out of the air and pulled a flap of paper from inside a crease. The paper unfolded, and a delicate silk mask tumbled into my fingers, followed by a pair of leather gloves lined with wool and silk. All black. Of course, I’d known Black Knife must be someone wealthy enough to afford all of his weapons and perfect black clothes, but not so rich that he was too lazy to spend his nights as a vigilante. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re useful. You need to hide your identity out here.”

All I did was hide my identity.

Even this, fighting and bickering with Black Knife, was hiding. But I loved it. I loved it more than Julianna Whitman’s life, definitely more than William Cole’s life, and even more than the life I’d planned for myself.

And how often did I get to keep things I loved? Never.

“I’m not like you.” Carefully, I wrapped his gifts back inside the paper.

“I thought you liked this. What we do.” He cocked his head. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” That was the problem. “You weren’t wrong.” I pressed the parcel to my chest. “I used to hate you, you know. I thought you had a vendetta and that innocent people were paying the price. But then you saved my friend, and you showed me mercy. You gave me a second chance.”

“I believe you’re a better person than you think you are.”

“You’re so optimistic. It’s not what I expected from a vigilante who calls himself Black Knife.”

“Well, I considered Optimistic Knife, but I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously.”

The paper crinkled against my chest as I shook my head, not bothering to hide my weak chuckle. “I’ve seen the notes people leave you. The city needs you. They want your help.”