Which wasn’t necessarily wrong. Alora scowled over it, lifting her chin. “I only asked out of decency to begin with. I hardly care.”
She waited for him to callthatfor the lie it was. But he didn’t. Instead, she felt his attention shift over her features—and wondered what conclusions he’d drawn by the end.
His fingers moved against hers. He cleared his throat, an indecisive sound. “I suppose, for all intents and purposes, that you may know me by my title, if not my true name.”
“Your title?” she laughed. “Like a fairytalelordorprinceor—”
“Urchin, Miss Pennigrim.”
Alora’s hands dropped as quickly as if she’d touched fire. She stumbled back, her heart thudding, fast and painful. “Whatdid you say?”
“I’m a messenger, as you assumed.”
“You called yourself an Urchin. Those are— They are—”
“What are they?” he said, though now when he fixed his attention on her, Alora felt the darkness threaded in his words. Suddenly the room felt too small, help too far away.
“A gang! Good-for-nothings. Shadows who attack people unprovoked, stealing their memories.” She snatched the lamp to her like the flame might keep his evilness at bay.
“Is that what they say?”
“I’ve witnessed it!”
The words were out of her mouth before she could think. Horrorstruck, Alora clamped her lips closed. She didn’t even have a chance to swing the lamp toward him before he was pressed against her, his hand around her wrist.
“Whatexactlyhave you witnessed?”
“Nothing,” she breathed. “Only shadows.”
She caught the glimmer of his eyes beneath the hood, though she could neither determine their color nor their exact shape; he held the lamp away from them. “You would be wise to keep such information to yourself. Trust me in this.”
“Why?”
His hand flexed atop hers. “Because you put yourself at great risk, and my word only extends so far.”
“Your word? Are you their leader?” She made to rip her hand from beneath his, but he held it fast. Disgust roiled through her as she thought of the broken woman. Her bandaged head.
“As a general is. But beneath a king.”
“Master Merridon is your ‘king’?”
“You’re quick. That might pose a problem.” He released her at last, though he didn’t back from her. “No. It certainly will.”
She watched his hand disappear within the folds of his coat with very real terror. It was her turn to be bludgeoned, she knew. Her turn to lose her memories, to wander, asking others what had been stolen. To lose her dream.
Panic seized her.
The Urchin ‘general’ halted. Tugged. And where he jerked his hand free, his opposite followed. He lifted his hands to the light, the manacles adorning each wrist glinting plain, a short chain taut between. He raised his head to her.
“What”—the growl of his voice thrummed, muffled behind the mask—“is this?”
Alora stepped sideways toward her satchel, toward the door. The Urchin stepped with her. “Shackles?” she offered, stepping again.
“How have shackles appeared on my wrists, Alora?”
“Don't call me by my given name again, you monstrous eel!”
“Miss Pennigrim,” he said through gritted teeth, and blocked her bodily. “I think it’s time you explained.”
