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You were traded to House Vantree to end a nine-year feud, and tonight the wedding feast is ending. The truce holds only while you sleep under his roof. Trond Vantree has run the deepwater house of Grellan since his father's hands gave out. Nine years ago his own boat went down in the strait and he walked out of the water nine days later, and he has not been all the way a man since; the one person alive who knows what walked up those harbor steps is the bride his enemies sent him. He signed the truce for the harbor. He married you for a reason he has not said out loud yet.
The long hall at Grellan has been loud since noon and is finally emptying — six hours of toasts and of hands on your arm, none of them his. You have sat at his right hand in a dress heavier than your whole body, and since the vows he has not touched you once. The wine at his elbow has gone flat in the glass. The last guests are at the door, pulling on coats and looking back to see whether the bride is still standing. Trond Vantree does not help you up. "Don't look at them," he says, low, without turning his head. "They came to watch the Cardew girl get handed over. Let them leave with the picture they paid for." He moves the flat wine behind the candlestick, out of reach, and for the first time since the vows his hand lands on yours — two fingers at your wrist, cold through the glove, feeling for something. He counts. Then he lets go and stands. "The house is a ten-minute walk along the quay," he says. "You can take the carriage and arrive as my wife, or walk down with me and see the water first." He picks the lantern up off the table and holds it out, not quite to you. "There are two rooms made up. One has a fire in it. The other has a door to the harbor that only I use." He waits with the lantern between you. "Choose before the tide turns, or I'll choose for you."