The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(83)

I sat in the corner of my cell, feet propped on the bench, and leaned my head back to stare at the ceiling. Water tapped somewhere nearby, steady and stately like the beat of a pavane. My bruises throbbed in time.

They were new bruises, shaped like the rough hands of soldiers. The men had grabbed and groped down my arms and legs, searching for hidden weapons. They’d been thorough—too thorough—until James began to shove them aside. He’d called them off, threatening them with dishonor as he reminded them that I was still a lady.

I’d kept my head high. I hadn’t so much as squeaked when strange men prodded my chest and stomach.

But as soon as the cell door slammed shut and I was alone, I lost everything into my bucket.

Now what?

There was no helping Aecor from jail. I could escape, but how would I tell the mitigation committee what I knew about the wraith if I was a fugitive?

Then again, was being a fugitive so different from being an Osprey?

I hadn’t killed the king. I had to believe they’d learn that. As for impersonating Julianna Whitman . . . what was the punishment for pretending to be a duchess?

What if the pretender was actually a princess?

Of a conquered kingdom?

With an army slowly building in the background, ready to take back the kingdom in her name?

Melanie would find out I’d been caught. She and Patrick would figure out what to do. Meanwhile, they’d send word to all our contacts in Aecor that the Indigo Kingdom was holding me prisoner. The resistance groups and former army would rally. They’d come to get me.

Unless Patrick decided a dead Wilhelmina was easier to handle than a defiant Wilhelmina.

No. He wouldn’t.

“Julianna?” James stood at the bars, silhouetted by the torch at his back. “I have a few questions for you.”

I pushed up to my feet and mimicked his posture: hands behind my back, shoulders straight, and feet hip-width apart. “I have a few questions for you, too.”

“This isn’t a game.” His mouth curled into a frown. “Who are you really?”

Wasn’t that what we were all trying to figure out? “A nameless girl.”

He glanced at someone outside of my line of sight, but if there was any communication in the look, I missed it; his expression remained impassive, and mostly in shadow.

“Well, nameless girl, I have another question for you.”

I didn’t move.

“Are you the vigilante known as Black Knife?”

“Do I look like Black Knife to you?”

“Maybe.” James pulled a piece of black silk from his pocket—my mask—and held it between two fingers, as though it might contaminate him. “Where did you get this?”

“I stole it.”

“So you’re not Black Knife.”

I held my hands out, gesturing at my empty belt. “Do you see a sword here? A crossbow? Silk cable to bind up my enemies? Obviously, I’m not Black Knife.”

“You have the same taste in clothes.” He motioned at my trousers and black sweater.

“Black is definitely my color.”

“Do you know who Black Knife is?”

I rolled my eyes. “Everyone knows who Black Knife is.”

“I mean his true identity.”

I shifted my weight to one hip and crossed my arms. “What about the mask is confusing to you? He wears it so no one will know who he truly is.” I let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled my eyes. “I thought being a lieutenant meant you were smart.”

He let that slide by. “So you don’t know his identity.”

“Clearly.”

“Are you protecting him?”

“I don’t think he needs my protection.”

“Very well.” James stuffed the mask into his pocket again. “Let’s talk about your alias. You’re not the real Julianna Whitman, so where is she?”

“Dead, I assume. In Liadia with the rest of her people who couldn’t escape the wraith.”

“And you forged her residency papers.”

I paced across the cell. Of course I’d forged the papers.

“What about your friend, Melanie? Is that her real name? Where is she?”

I kept pacing, and the questions kept coming:

“What was your objective here?”

“Where did you learn so much about Liadian history?”

“What kind of information were you after? Was your mission complete? Who are your contacts outside the palace?”

I answered all of his questions with silence and the occasional raised eyebrow, and finally he moved on to the king’s assassination.

“Where were you that night?”

“Sleeping.”

“We found weapons in your room and on your person.”

“But not like the knife you described. Serrated blade? Strong assassin?” I pushed up my sleeve to reveal the slender muscles of my arms, and the pale blue bruises from his men’s hands. “Do you think I’m physically capable of cutting clean through someone’s throat?”

James glanced at my arm, and his expression tightened for a heartbeat. “You might be.”

The truth was, while I was strong from years of fighting and training, I had no idea how much pressure or strength it took to cut a man’s throat, with a serrated blade or otherwise. It probably wasn’t much, but I needed to sow doubt. I was guilty of impersonating a dead duchess, but I hadn’t killed their king.