The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(87)

The packed horses and ponies drew my attention again. On the far side of the camp, several people tore down their lean-tos and rounded up children. The clatter of dozens of people preparing to move out finally pierced my haze, and I narrowed my eyes at the little girl. “What wraith monster?”

Her eyes grew so wide I could see the whites all around her irises. “The one that screams for a lady.”

The thing I created. I’d assumed I would have time to think and plan. But no.

It was coming for me.

My heart thundered in my ears, deafening. I had to get back to the old palace. I had to stop the wraith. I had to do something—I just didn’t know what.

“Are you going to help us, Black Knife?” The girl and her father approached again. She reached for me, fingertips brushing my thigh.

I curled my hands over my hips; only the spindle and wool were in my belt, meant as a gift for Theresa, who’d enjoy it. No daggers. No weapons. “I’m not Black Knife.”

“Please stop the wraith.” Others grew bold, moving toward me with halting steps. They were afraid of me, but not frightened enough—or simply more afraid of the wraith closing in on the Indigo Kingdom. And who could blame them, after what they’d been through?

But now, they came closer, pressing at me on all sides to touch my hair, my clothes, my face. One took the spindle and wool.

“Black Knife,” someone murmured. “You’re really here.”

“Black Knife is a girl!”

“No.” I tried to ease my way through the mass of people, but they crowded and their hands grew more demanding, landing on tender bruises. Someone grabbed my wrist. Another touched my throat.

Something in me snapped.

I yanked myself away, shoved someone, elbowed someone. I pushed myself through the crowd of dirty strangers, heedless of their anguished cries, and hurtled into the night as quickly as I could.

“Wait!” someone shouted. “The wraith is coming!” Footfalls thudded behind me. A trail of desperate men and women came after me, pleading for Black Knife’s help.

“My daughter is missing!”

“My husband is hurt!”

“Find my sister in the wraithland!”

Everyone needed Black Knife’s help. Not mine. I couldn’t solve their problems when I didn’t even know how to deal with my own.

Strangling back a sob, I threw myself into the forest and let instinct and years of practice take over. I leapt over roots, stones, and streams, dodged the familiar trees of this forest. Birds took flight around me, and at the harried crashing and cursing that pursued me. Brush snapped and someone cried out, but I couldn’t stop.

“Stop the wraith, Black Knife!”

I wasn’t Black Knife. Why couldn’t they see?

My flight through the forest turned into a fast walk and climb as the ground sloped upward, toward the mountains. The voices grew fainter as I outran the refugees and their pleas.

Finally, I collapsed to the ground in a heap of shivering and dry heaving. I could still feel their hands all over me, the phantom pressure of their groping.

“Will?”

I snapped up and scanned the area, fingers grasping for daggers that weren’t where they should be. But Black Knife stepped out of the shadows, breathing hard as he lifted his gloved hands. One was empty; the other held a small lamp, illuminating his assailable state. A full bag hung off one shoulder.

“I wasn’t sure you’d meet me,” he said. “So I followed your escort out of the city, just in case you decided not to come back.”

Still shivering, I lowered myself back to the ground and shook my head. “You couldn’t have had them leave me somewhere more convenient?” My whole body ached with terror and cold and the flood of adrenaline that hadn’t quite faded. Even breathing hurt.

“No.” He dropped the bag and sat down next to me, angling the light to fall directly in my eyes. “What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” I turned away and breathed in the damp, earthy scent of the forest. “I stood there like an idiot, trying to decide whether I would meet you, and people mistook me for you.”

“And then you panicked. Why?”

My heart pounded with memory. Trapped. Hands grabbing. Fingers biting into my flesh. “I don’t want to talk about it.” That wasn’t my voice, so wispy and weak. I tried again. “Just forget it.”

“All right.” He rested his palm on my shoulder.

I tensed, and he paused, and slowly—slowly—I forced my muscles to relax one by one. I forced myself to breathe.

Black Knife gave me a moment, then stroked my arm over and over, as though he could smooth out the wrinkles in my heart. “What had you decided?” His voice was gentle. “Were you coming to see me?”

“Yes.” I rolled over, away from him, and let the breeze cool the sweat off my throat. He wore his mask, as if that could rekindle the familiar anonymity between us, but now that I knew who he was, I couldn’t help but see Tobiah’s shape beneath the black silk and jacket and polished boots. I’d wanted to know his identity; now I wished I didn’t. “I had to get my notebook back. Did you read it?”

He dropped his hands into his lap, shoulders curled inward. “You didn’t steal my secret before I was ready. You deserve the same consideration.”