The old woman got an affronted, self-righteous look on her face. “I am indeed a master herbalist, but no amount of herbal remedy or even full summer sun could possibly erase what you did to her—not in the short time you’ve given me. It will be a week at the earliest before she’s fully healed. If you wanted her capable of wedding, you should have restrained yourself rather than beating her within an inch of her life!”

“Watch your tongue, woman.” Lifelong retainer she might be, but Tildavera Greenleaf had long ago forgotten her place.

“Or what? You’ll beat me, too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He paced the office floor, thinking rapidly. Yes, he’d been harsh, but the damnable girl had refused to bend, and he’d been forced to break her. He’d been counting on the nursemaid’s skill with herbs and the girl’s own cursedly efficient self-healing abilities to mitigate the worst of the wounds he’d inflicted. “If you can’t have her ready for the wedding, Tildavera, you can at least have her ready for the wedding night.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Aren’t you the one who said consummation was the only way to ensure the White King wouldn’t demand the marriage be annulled once he realizes he’s wed to that . . . abomination instead of the Season he’s expecting? Have him wed her and bed her and whisk her out of the city before he realizes he’s been duped, you said.”

“That was before I knew you’d beaten her near to death!”

“She’ll survive. She always does. But the reasons for insisting on consummation haven’t changed just because the hour grows late, and you’ve discovered that your skills aren’t quite what you’ve always touted them to be.”

He kicked at the small scorch mark on his office carpet left by the burning ash of Rosalind’s picture and diary. Many potentially lethal accidents had befallen the girl in the years following Rosalind’s death, most of them natural, a few less so, but she had survived each one unscathed. Contagion never touched her, deadly blows turned away at the last moment, even the few grievous wounds she’d suffered over the years healed swiftly, without infection or scarring. It was as if the gods themselves sat on her shoulder, protecting her from sickness and peril.

Well, now he had an opportunity to rid himself of her once and for all, and he wasn’t about to suffer her presence a moment longer than necessary.

“There will be a wedding. By proxy if necessary.” He stopped pacing and looked up. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the best solution all around.” The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it had great potential. “One of the Seasons can stand in for her . . . Autumn, I think. He showed interest in her.”

His mind churned through all the possible ways the plan could go wrong and all the ways to keep that from happening. “We’ll keep Autumn heavily veiled—and make up some excuse for it, of course—and have the girl switch places with her when she goes to disrobe for the wedding night. If he does insist on seeing his bride’s face before the vows are spoken, he’ll think he’s getting exactly what he wanted. You could even put a little something in his drink to disorient him and ensure he consummates the marriage without realizing she’s not one of the Seasons.”

His biggest fear all day had been that Wynter Atrialan would learn his bride’s true identity before he bedded her and annul the marriage. But this . . . this could work. After all, for all that he despised her, the girl was a princess of Summerlea . . . she did bear the Rose . . . and Wynter had not demanded a particular daughter to be his wife. He’d just said to choose one. Any fault in not knowing what he might get lay entirely with him.

If the Winter King happened to kill the girl in a fury when he realized how he’d been tricked . . . well, he’d just be ridding Verdan of the albatross that had hung around his neck for the last two decades.

Verdan turned and frowned at the old nursemaid, who was still standing near his desk. “Are you still here, Tildavera? What are you waiting for? Go make this happen.”

“Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? You wounded her severely. Even if Autumn stands in for her at the wedding, healing Khamsin enough to withstand a consummation tonight is beyond even my skills.”

He lifted a speaking brow. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve seen you fix a posset that had a gutted soldier laughing and smiling only hours after his intestines had been stuffed back inside him. The girl’s wounds might not have healed enough to let her stand and walk about, but the pain is something you can mask. Especially as all she has to do is lie there and spread her legs.”

“Blessed Sun!” she exclaimed. “How can you be such a monster? You’re her father! Rosalind was her mother! Hate the part of you that lives in her if you must, but how can you hate the part of her that came from our Rose?”

Heat rushed into his veins. “She murdered my Rose. I don’t just hate her, I loathe the very air she breathes!” he spat. He turned away, fighting to rein in his temper before Tildavera earned more than sharp words. “Make her ready, Nurse. And close the door behind you when you leave.”

Khamsin dragged herself across the room, using each stick of furniture as a crutch to help her keep her feet as she shuffled back from the tiny bathing room towards the lamplit bed. The thin silk robe she’d draped around her body brushed against the fragile new skin on her back, each light touch sending bolts of pain shooting through her, and despite Tildy’s constant ministrations, Kham’s muscles had stiffened up so that every step punished her for making the effort. Of course, considering that earlier today she’d barely been able even to sit up without screaming, the ability to move about the room at all was nothing short of a miracle.