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The carriage wheels hit another rut and Wantang's shoulder slammed into the side panel. Her wrists were still bound. The smell of smoke clung to her dress—or Eveline's dress, technically. The man across from her hadn't spoken since he'd thrown her into the carriage and barked an order to move.
Rowan Vale. Frontier heir. That's all the crowd had whispered before he'd hauled her off the platform.
She tested the ropes. Tight, but not cutting off circulation. Professional work. She looked up.
He was watching her.
"You going to tell me what I just agreed to?" she asked. Her throat was raw from screaming—no, wait. Eveline's throat. Eveline had screamed when they lit the pyre. Wantang had only been inside this body for maybe ten minutes before that.
"You didn't agree to anything," Rowan said. His voice was low, flat. "I invoked a frontier contract clause. You were present. That's enough."
"For what?"
"Marriage."
Wantang laughed. It came out sharp and bitter. "Right. You saw a woman about to burn and thought, 'perfect wife material.'"
Rowan leaned forward. The carriage interior was dim, but she could see his face now—sharp jaw, pale eyes, a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He looked maybe thirty. He looked like he'd killed people.
"I need a bride for thirty days," he said. "You need to not be dead. We both win."
"Why thirty?"
"Frontier law. Contract marriages require a minimum term. Thirty days, then annulment."
She filed that away. Frontier law was clearly different from royal law. The tribunal had hesitated when he'd invoked it. That meant leverage.
"And after thirty days?"
"You're free. I'll provide transport to whatever border you want. New papers. Enough silver to start over."
It sounded too good. Wantang had negotiated with enough desperate people to know when someone was selling too hard.
"What do you get out of it?" she asked.
Rowan sat back. His expression didn't change. "A bride."
"For thirty days. Then you let me go. You don't know me. You don't owe me. So what's the actual reason?"
The carriage turned. Wantang grabbed the edge of the bench to keep from sliding.
"You're smarter than the reports said," Rowan said.
"What reports?"
"Eveline Vey. Minor noble house. Decent dowry, no political weight. Engaged twice, broke it off both times. Last year she turned down a royal match and the crown stopped smiling at her family."
Wantang's stomach dropped. Eveline had pissed off the queen. That's why the trial had been so fast.
"You didn't answer my question," she said.
Rowan pulled a folded paper from inside his coat. He tossed it onto the bench beside her. "Read."
She couldn't pick it up with her hands tied. She gave him a look.
He pulled a knife.
Wantang went still.
Rowan cut the ropes. Then he slid the knife back into his belt and nodded at the paper.
She rubbed her wrists and unfolded it. The handwriting was narrow and precise, the kind of script that came from expensive tutors. It was dated three weeks ago.
*Lord Rowan Vale. Your petition to wed within six months is noted. Failure to present a bride by the Midsummer Offering will result in the reclamation of your family's territorial claim and the dissolution of House Vale's frontier seat.*
It was signed by someone called High Curator Orin Vael.
Wantang read it twice. Then she looked up.
"You're on a deadline," she said.
"Yes."
"And if you don't marry by Midsummer, you lose your land."
"And my house. And my people."
"When's Midsummer?"
"Thirty-two days."
So that's why thirty. He needed the absolute minimum contract term to meet the crown's deadline. If she died before then, he'd have no bride, no marriage, and no claim.
Wantang leaned back against the carriage wall. Her heart was still racing, but her head was clearing. This was a negotiation. She knew negotiations.
"Why me?" she asked. "You could've grabbed any woman off the street."
"You were convenient," Rowan said.
"Bullshit."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "You're already condemned. If you run, the crown hunts you, not me. If you talk, no one believes a convicted poisoner. And if you die—"
"Your contract dies with me," Wantang finished. "So you need to keep me alive."
"Yes."
That was leverage. She tucked it away.
"What happens during the thirty days?" she asked.
"You stay at my estate. You appear at the Midsummer Offering as my wife. You don't leave the grounds, don't contact anyone outside, don't make trouble."
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You're a bride."
"Same thing."
Rowan's jaw tightened. "I'm offering you thirty days of life you wouldn't have had. You want to negotiate the quality of the sheets too?"
Wantang met his eyes. He was angry. That was good. Angry people made mistakes.
"I want to know what you're not telling me," she said.
The carriage slowed. Voices outside—guards, maybe. Rowan glanced toward the door, then back at her.
"The crown wants the frontier bloodlines gone," he said quietly. "My house is the last one with a valid territorial claim. If I don't marry and produce an heir, the claim dies. The land goes back to the crown. Two thousand people lose their homes."
"So find a real wife."
"I had one. She died two months ago."
The way he said it—flat, clipped—told Wantang not to ask how.
"The crown's watching," Rowan continued. "Any noble house I approach will either refuse or report me. I needed someone who couldn't say no."
"Someone disposable," Wantang said.
"Someone already dead."
She hated that it made sense. She hated that she was considering it. But she'd been a crisis negotiator for eight years. She'd talked down armed suspects, hostage-takers, people who had nothing left to lose. She knew how to buy time.
Thirty days was time.
"If I do this," she said, "I want something in writing. A real contract. Not just your word."
Rowan reached into his coat again and pulled out a second paper. This one was thicker, sealed with black wax.
"Already drafted," he said. He held it out.
Wantang took it. The seal had a wolf's head pressed into the wax. She broke it and skimmed the text.
It was thorough. Thirty-day term. Annulment clause. Safe passage and funds upon completion. Her obligations: appear as his wife, reside at his estate, make no public statements about the arrangement. His obligations: keep her alive, provide security, release her unharmed at the end.
There was a blank line at the bottom for her signature.
She looked up. "You were pretty sure I'd say yes."
"You're a survivor," Rowan said. "I looked into your eyes on that platform. You weren't ready to die."
He was right. She wasn't. Eveline might have been, but Wantang had fought too hard in her own life to give up in someone else's body.
She reached for the quill he offered.
Then the carriage door slammed open.
A woman stood in the doorway, breathless and wild-eyed. She wore servant's clothes, but her hands were shaking like she'd just run a mile. Two royal guards flanked her.
"Lord Vale," one of the guards said. "We have new testimony. This witness claims—"
"I saw her," the woman gasped. She pointed at Wantang. "I saw Lady Eveline in the apothecary. I watched her mix the poison herself."