A little of the starch wilted out of him—but only a little. “You are the wife of our king, Your Grace, and by the laws of the Craig, your welfare is his responsibility. He will allow nothing and no one to harm you.”

That sounded nothing at all like the Winter King who mercilessly conquered Summerlea, but then again, thus far her every interaction with him had been one surprise after another. “My name is Khamsin,” she said. “My sisters call me Storm.”

“Storm?”

“My giftname.”

“Ah.” Valik glanced up at the clouds overhead. “That explains much.”

Valik didn’t stay to talk. He busied himself instead with overseeing the raising and furnishing of Wynter’s tent, though Khamsin noted he actually gave more assistance than supervision.

The Wintermen were swift, efficient folk. In less than fifteen minutes, the towering fourteen-foot center pole and its surrounding eight-foot perimeter poles were in place, supporting the broad circular form of the tent. Once the tent pegs were hammered into place, Wintermen carted rugs, pillows, braziers, and other furnishings inside. To her surprise, they unloaded her possessions from the carriage and carried them inside too: her trunk, Tildy’s growing lamps, even the plants her sisters had given her.

She watched her belongings disappear into the interior of the Winter King’s tent, and all her brave talk about facing her fears head-on evaporated.

Last night, bolstered by painkillers and arras and shielded by the veils of darkness and deception, she’d unflinchingly—in the end, even eagerly—shared a bed with the Winter King. All fear, all modesty, all reason, had flown out the window after his first, explosive touch. She had lost herself to sensation and the freedom of anonymity.

Tonight was different. Tonight, she would have no arras, no darkness, no veils to hide behind. There would be only her and the man she had deceived into wedlock.

A sudden gust of cold wind made the tent walls shudder and flap. Her oilskin parasol caught the gust and nearly ripped out of her hands. Rain, chill and bracing, splashed her face. She clutched the parasol more tightly and swiped the rain out of her eyes. When she opened them again, Valik was standing there before her.

“The tent is ready, Your Grace.” He swept his arm back towards the open tent flap, indicating that she should proceed inside.

She forced her feet to move. The first step was the hardest, the ones after that came easier as pride stiffened her spine. Bella hurried behind her, dodging slushy puddles of snow and mud.

The interior of the canvas tent had been transformed into a plush, surprisingly spacious stateroom. A large brazier circled the center pole, its iron troughs already filled with slow-burning, fragrant wood. Blue-gray smoke from the newly started fire curled up in wispy tendrils, guided by a vent pipe that curled round the center pole like a dragon’s tail towards the arch of the tent roof. The pipe exited through a vent flap cut into the highest point of the canvas, and the wind blowing past overhead caused a slight vacuum effect, drawing the smoke outside.

A scattered collection of thick rugs covered the tent floor and softened the hard surface of the frozen ground below. Several folding chairs and a small table had been set up on one side, not far from the fire, and in the back corner of the tent, behind screens of concealing cloth stretched over iron frames what appeared to be plump, down-filled coverlets and pillows had been piled together and covered with blankets and furs. Tildy’s growing lamps were positioned around the mound.

“We do not travel in as extravagant a fashion as Summerlanders,” Valik said, misunderstanding her silent perusal of the tent.

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “Much more luxurious than I’d expected.” From the whispers she’d heard among her father’s courtiers, she’d halfway been expecting cold stone stools and beds hewn from blocks of ice, but this was not at all hard or austere.

“Make yourself comfortable. The cook tents are up, but it will be a while before the evening meal is prepared.”

Khamsin’s belly lurched at the thought of food. She pressed a hand against her stomach and swallowed back the surge of nausea. “Don’t bother on my account, Lord Valik. I’m really not very hungry.”

His eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “I’ll have the men bring you a little something all the same. Loke and Baroc will be just outside in case you need them.” He bowed again and backed out of the tent.

She waited until Valik was gone before she kicked off her muddy shoes and took her first tentative step onto the exquisite carpets. Stockinged toes sank deep into the soft wool pile. The carpet felt like a cushion of springy moss beneath her feet, surprisingly soft and inviting, like the rest of the furnishings. She approached the brazier, holding her hands out to the welcoming warmth. Already, the inside of the tent was several degrees warmer than the outside, and without the wind and the sting of cold rain cutting through her clothes, it was almost cozy.

The interior of the tent had been decorated, the canvas walls covered in colorful, intricate hunting scenes depicting silvery white snow wolves and white-haired Wintermen on horseback hunting deer, bear, and wild pigs through forests of aspen, spruce, and pine that transformed seamlessly from one season to the next.

The scenes weren’t bloody or brutal. They were beautiful—a celebration of nature and survival, with the entire cycle of life depicted in a never-ending circle of seasons. Tucked away within the painting were scenes of nature renewing itself: a tiny fawn curled in the underbrush, a rocky den filled with wolf pups, bear cubs climbing a tree while their mother ate berries from a bush nearby. Eagles and falcons soared overhead, hovering above nests filled with eggs and fledglings. The painting was so vivid, she could almost hear the rustle of the gold-painted aspen leaves shivering in the autumn winds, feel the chill blowing across the snow-frosted tops of the trees in the winter scene, and smell the flowers of the cool mountain summer.