Rosalind Nightshade wanted one thing before the frost broke: to stand in the Midwinter ballroom and win the single dance that named a suitor's bride. She had sewn her own gown for it, black silk with pink thread at the collar, and hemmed it three nights running. She had studied the steps until her feet knew them in the dark. She had everything but the one paper that opened the doors. She had no invitation. The guards at the estate gate held a list. She had watched them all afternoon from across the frozen courtyard. Coaches rolled up. Servants presented sealed cards. The guards checked names and waved each one through. Twice they turned away a woman with no card, and their hands stayed on their spears while she left. Rosalind pulled her hood low and thought. She could not forge a seal. She could not sneak the wall; the ice made it slick and open. She needed a name already on the list. A small painted sign hung on the gardener's shed near the gate, left there as a joke by some servant. Its cheerful letters read: maybe make friends with people who are already invited. Rosalind almost laughed. Then she stopped laughing, because the sign was right. She walked to the line of waiting coaches. A young noblewoman stood alone by hers, shivering, her card in one gloved hand. Her driver was gone. One wheel had cracked against a curbstone, and the coach leaned in the slush. Rosalind stepped in without asking. "Hold the rim," she said. "I'll lift the axle." She braced her shoulder under the frame and heaved. Her gown dragged in the wet snow. The noblewoman gripped the wheel and pushed. The coach groaned upright. The noblewoman stared, breathless. "You ruined your dress for a stranger." "It dries," Rosalind said. "Come with me, then." The noblewoman held up her card. "They let a guest bring a companion. I hate walking in alone." They crossed to the gate together. The guards read the noblewoman's name and counted her one guest without a second look. Rosalind passed under the arch. Her heart slammed. She was inside. The ballroom opened before her, gold light and a hundred turning gowns. Music climbed to the high ceiling. She had beaten the door. But the noblewoman kept her hand tight on Rosalind's arm. "Stay near me," she said, smiling too warmly. "My brother is hunting a bride tonight. I promised to bring him someone new." She nodded toward a tall man in a dark suit and tie, watching the crowd with cold patience. Adrian Blackwell. The prince every other woman had come to win. Rosalind had wanted a fair place among the suitors. Instead she had walked in owing a debt, promised to a man she never chose, with a stranger's grip steering her straight toward him.