I reread the letter a few times before I wrote a response, changed clothes, and went out the balcony door.
Chill night pressed around me as I weighed my options. Go down and around and back up, a sure way to get caught, or go over.
Over it was.
Senses straining to hear any sound beyond the groaning wind, I tossed my grappling hook and climbed the wall. At the top, I threw an ankle over the roof and rolled up and onto the slate tiles.
With my line and hook secure at my hip, I belly crawled up to the peak, using chimneys to give me boosts and resting places so I could listen for patrols.
The other side of the roof was more dangerous, with bits of glass sticking up from between the tiles like traps. Moonlight caught the larger shards, but others were hidden. I took care as I crept down, my feet first. The sword on my back limited my movement, but I could compensate.
I sidled along the edge of the roof until I sat above the balcony I wanted. There were no guards stationed there; the thud of boots was far off. Wind blew in cold and sharp. I pushed off the roof.
I landed in a crouch, gloved fingertips brushing the stone. Hardly a sound.
There was no trace of blood on the balcony; some poor maid had already scrubbed and rinsed the stone. Nevertheless, the place where Tobiah had fallen drew my eyes and held me captive. We’d almost lost him.
The balcony door was locked, but the mechanism was easy to pick. It took only half a minute to open the door and slip through the curtains that caught the breeze. Quietly, I latched the door behind me.
Something spun me and slammed me against the glass. A flash of gold hovered above, and a blur before me resolved into an ashen face.
Tobiah’s palm pressed against my breastbone, and he had his antique spyglass raised like a weapon. His eyes were wide, a little wild, until he recognized my mask, and we both glanced down to find my daggers out of their sheathes, pointed at his stomach.
The blades dropped to the rug with soft thumps. I hadn’t even realized I’d drawn them.
He heaved a breath and tossed the spyglass onto his bed. “Wil.” Then his arms were around me, strong and solid as he buried his face against my neck. “You shouldn’t be here.”
And he shouldn’t be holding me like this, not when he wore nothing but a loose nightshirt and trousers, and his hair was messy from sleep. Still, my heart galloped as our bodies pressed close together, and my fingertips explored the ridges of his spine. He fit me.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered. “Never mind. Don’t answer. Just don’t be a dream.”
“Would dream-me threaten to split you from stomach to sternum only a day after healing you from a similar injury?”
He gave a soft snort. “Yes. Absolutely.”
So he dreamed about me? Often?
I closed my eyes, indulging in the feel of his body pressing on mine for only a moment more before I whispered, “We can’t do this.”
He groaned, like reality returning, and stepped back. “I’m sorry.” His eyes followed me as I knelt and retrieved my daggers. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Forgive me.
He’d probably just been relieved I wasn’t Patrick, creeping in to finish the job. But word was that Patrick had been spotted in one of the piedmont villages across the mountains. He was far from here.
I slid my daggers into their sheathes and took the folded note from my belt. After a second’s hesitation, I offered it to him. “I thought if you were going to sneak letters into my room, I should get to have fun, too.”
“And you had to dress as Black Knife to do it?” He took the letter, holding it like it might bite.
“Do you know how hard it is to climb over the roof while wearing a gown?”
A sly smile welled up in the corner of his mouth. “None of the court ladies will loan me a gown to try.”
“Well that’s just rude of them.” I started a slow circle around him, making a show of inspecting the way his nightclothes hung over his lean frame. If he wore a bandage anymore, I couldn’t see it beneath the dark blue silk. “I have a dress you could borrow, but your hips are all wrong for it.”
He offered a playful frown. “Now who’s rude? You’ll have to learn to be more diplomatic if you’re going to be queen, Wilhelmina.” He moved to a bookcase, struck a match, and lit a candle. Soft firelight glowed across the angles of his face, revealing the tension that still hung about his jaw and neck and shoulders; this teasing was a desperate attempt for normalcy, though between Tobiah and me, or Black Knife and me, I couldn’t tell. He looked like one and acted like the other, and wasn’t truly either.
Why couldn’t they have been separate boys?