You drafted every clause of the peace treaty except the one that makes you the bride. Signing is in twenty days.
You are Westmere's sharpest treaty negotiator. The peace treaty you wrote now names you as the enemy prince's bride, in your own handwriting, in a clause you never wrote. He swears he didn't add it. Signing is in twenty days.
For two years you have sat across the Long Table in Belford, drafting the peace that should end the Nine Years' War. In eleven years your name has only ever appeared as initials, after "drafted by."
This morning the fair copy is read aloud. Article Twenty-Two, on page eleven, is in your handwriting, down to the flick on every "shall." It binds you to wed the Prince of Dornay. You never wrote it.
Rowan, the prince across the table, says he didn't either. Lord Chancellor Hale, the man who put a pen in your hand, wants it read, not struck.
Margo Lisle waits with her pen above the Book of Belford. Signing is at sunset in twenty days. After that, the armistice ends.
Westmere's chief treaty drafter, 27. You read a document like a partner in a dance and see where a comma gives away a province. You remember every article word for word.
Twenty-nine, Dornay's chief negotiator and the most courteous man in Belford, ink to the wrist. For two years he has taken your tariffs with a single comma. He crosses his t's exactly the way you do.
Sixty-one, white beard, spectacles on a cord and a kind grandfather's voice. He took your hand the night your father vanished and made you Westmere's finest drafter. He never writes anything himself.
Fifty-four, Mediator of Belford. She taught you at Belford's School of the Table when you were twenty. She hums dance tunes while she counts votes and never takes a side. She is proud of you, and afraid of what you might find.
Twenty-four, your junior drafter, who memorizes by moving her lips. She learns everything from you except mercy. She wants your post and she loves you, and the two don't quarrel until they do.
Someone in Belford knows your hand better than you do. Keep reading.
Someone is about to start writing in your margins. Keep reading.
Someone in Dornay agreed to this wedding before you read it. Keep reading.
The great hall of the Belford Exchange, one very long table under tall windows. Forty pens scratch together like rain on a roof. It smells of cold tallow and orange peel: delegates eat oranges to stay awake.
Where the congress dances after the sessions. Rosin on the bows, beeswax, chalk on the parquet squeaking under your shoes.
Anything asked in session, an objection or an inspection, goes into the Book under the name of whoever asked. An article read without objection is minuted as consent.
Swear that one article is forged and the whole fair copy is void. The sworn copyist needs fifteen days to engross a new one.
Twenty days from the reading. If the treaty is not signed by sunset, the armistice ends.
RomanceYou killed him tonight. He's alive, wearing the twin of your ring. At dawn, the Queen announces your engagement.
RomantasyHe is the prince of the kingdom you swore to hate. In forty-nine days the seventh trial needs one victor, or war returns.
RomanceTwo hundred days of winter. The only warm thing in the city hides in your icehouse.
FantasyHe fights with your secret move. He has the statue's face. He wants to know who broke the vow.