Chapter 1 The Execution

"The execution is set for the thirtieth day, my lady."

I opened my eyes.

Gold vines curled across a ceiling far too high above me. Beside the bed stood a maid in a gray dress, crying so quietly it was somehow worse than sobbing.

Then I saw the red wedding gown by the window, and my blood went cold.

I knew that dress.

Page twelve. The morning of the wedding.

No.

I had read this book. I had cheered when the villainess died.

And now I was the villainess.

Lady Zabeth Valcourt. Poisoner. Bully. The woman the entire kingdom hated.

Thirty days after today's wedding, I would kneel on a stone platform and lose my head.

The kingdom called me the Poison Bride. They would cheer when my head struck the stone.

I remembered every line. The wedding at noon. The Duke's silence at the altar. The wedding night, when he called me a poisoned gift from the council and I screamed and threw a vase.

The heroine crying in a garden, beautiful even then.

And the crowd on the thirtieth day, cheering.

I had cheered too.

I remembered typing finally in the comments, and my stomach twisted.

"Leave me," I whispered.

The maid fled.

I would find her later and apologize. Somehow. The old Zabeth had given that poor girl plenty of reasons to cry.

The door opened again. No knock.

Duke Jacob Draven filled the doorway, dressed in black, his eyes like frozen steel. The book had described him in one line: a man without a heart.

It had been too kind.

"I did not choose you," he said. "The council did. You will have my name and nothing else. And when they come for your head, I will not stop them."

This was the page where the old Zabeth screamed and begged, making him hate her more with every word.

I could almost hear those words waiting in my mouth.

My throat was dry. My hands shook, so I hid them in my nightgown and lifted my chin.

"Then let's make a deal."

He stared at me.

"A deal?"

"A contract marriage. Keep me alive, and I'll help you survive what's coming."

Something shifted in his face. Not warmth. Suspicion.

"And what is coming?"

Your friend's secret. The council's knife. Your own death, a month after mine.

I couldn't tell him all that. Not yet.

"More than you think," I said. "And the people holding the knife will smile at you first."

He stepped closer.

I noticed a thin scar along his jaw that the book had never mentioned.

"You are not the woman I was told to expect."

"No," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm not."

He studied me for a long moment, like a man reading a letter in a language he almost understood.

Then he turned and left.

The door shut softly.

Somehow, that was worse than a slam.

My knees gave out. I caught the edge of the dressing table and slid to the floor. For a while, all I could do was breathe.

One conversation.

I had broken the story in one conversation.

It should have felt like winning. Instead, it felt like stepping off a cliff.

The book was the only map I had, and every page I changed made that map a little less reliable.

Voices drifted through the corridor. Two men, speaking quietly.

I crawled to the door and pressed my ear against the wood.

"Did she scream?" a warm, easy voice asked.

"No."

"Cry?"

"No."

A pause.

"Then what did she do?"

Another pause.

"She made me an offer."

A short laugh of disbelief.

Vamin.

Jacob's oldest friend. The kindest man in the whole book, and the one who died smiling.

I had cried over his death on the train home, ugly crying, until a stranger passed me a tissue.

Now his voice was right there, alive, on the other side of a door.

I wanted to open it. I wanted to tell him that I knew how this ended, that I was sorry, that I would try to change it.

Instead, I stayed where I was.

A villainess who wept for a man she had never met would be locked up as mad.

"Be careful," Vamin said, his voice quieter now. "A wolf changes his coat for one reason. He is hunting."

Their footsteps faded.

Somewhere far below, a bell began to ring.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

The ceiling in my old bedroom had a water stain shaped like a rabbit. I had stared at it every morning for four years.

My last memory was a wet road, a flash of headlights, and my phone buzzing in my hand.

Mum's name on the screen.

Mum called every Sunday. She always said I worked too hard, and I always told her I was fine.

We both pretended that was true.

That night, I had been too tired to answer.

I'll call her back tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

The tears came before I could stop them.

Not for the Duke, the wedding, or the execution platform.

For a missed call and a woman who would sit waiting by a phone that would never ring.

"I'm not crying," I told the empty room, wiping my face with the heel of my hand. "I'm just not dying on that platform. That's all."

A knock sounded at the door.

Then a voice, sweet as honey and about as sticky.

"Zabeth, darling? Everyone is waiting to see you married."

My stepmother.

In the book, this woman built my grave one lie at a time. Forged letters. Rumours about my temper. Whispers fed to the council, spoon by spoon.

My skin crawled.

I knew every lie she was going to tell.

Knowing them was not the same as being able to stop them.

I pushed myself up and wiped my cheeks.

"One moment."

"Of course, darling. Take all the time you need."

Her footsteps drifted away, unhurried.

She knew exactly how much time I had.

And she wasn't the worst of it.

At noon, the whole kingdom would watch my wedding. In the front row, dressed in white silk and wearing an expression of patient hatred, would sit Lady Manon.

She had loved the Duke since they were children.

She would never forgive the council for choosing me instead.

I looked at the red gown. It hung against the white wall like blood.

Thirty days.

Just get through thirty days.

I made myself stand and walk to the mirror.

A stranger stared back at me.

Dark, wavy hair. A sharp, lovely face. Cold eyes that weren't mine.

Somewhere inside this body, the old Zabeth had been angry and lonely and cruel. I could feel the shape of her, like a coat that didn't fit.

I pressed two fingers to my throat.

Warm.

Quick.

Alive.

Okay, I told the stranger in the mirror. We're going to do this together.

I don't have a choice, and neither do you.

Interesting.

I stopped breathing.

The voice was deep, slow, amused.

It wasn't mine.

You are not her at all.

I spun around.

The candles. The curtains. The mirror.

Nobody.

Who's there? I thought, and suddenly my own mind felt too loud.

A low laugh rolled through my skull, soft as thunder over distant hills.

Someone who has been locked away for a very long time, the voice said. And you, little stranger, are the only one who can hear me.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

What do you want from me?

Right now? To help you live. You will need me before this wedding is over.

A pause.

I could almost feel it smile.

Ask my name, and I will tell you how to survive the night.

I swallowed.

Fine. What's your name?

Marrow.

I went very still.

I had read this book three times. I knew every character, every cruel little secret, every name in the kingdom.

There was no Marrow in it.

Not on any page.

Not a footnote, not a rumour, not a villain's name whispered in a council room.

Nothing.

Good, the voice said softly. Then we are both something it never planned for.

What will it cost me? I asked.

Nothing yet, Marrow replied. Survive the wedding, little stranger. Then we will talk about what a villain is worth.

The voice went quiet.

The candles guttered.

Far below, the bell rang again.

For the first time since I woke up in this strange room, I was truly afraid.

Not of the execution.

Of the one voice in this kingdom that wasn't in the book.