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He planned to hand me another white slip tomorrow. I heard him say it myself. "Switch Clara's for a white one. Audrey's still too fragile." Seven years of white. Seven years of watching him wrap his jacket around her. I once sewed him a coat—orchid buttons and all. He gave it to her the next morning. Last year, he shoved me into the river because she caught a cold. I woke up with a fever of 104. He stayed at her bedside. "Don't bother me unless you're dying," he said. So I stopped bothering. I walked to the draw box before anyone else could touch it. Preston grabbed my wrist. "Who's gonna take you? You're mine." I pulled free. My hand went inside. The slips were packed tight—smooth and rough. White was smooth. Red was rough. Seven years of rigged games dressed up as tradition. My fingers found the rough grain. I pulled out red. The crowd g@sped. Preston knocked the whole box over—slips flying everywhere. Too late. A black boat c/ut through the water toward me. I'd never seen it before. A man's hand reached out—knuckles sharp, eyes steady. "I've been watching you wait," he said. "Don't." I took his hand. Preston screamed my name from the dock. Audrey was still coughing behind him. The black boat pulled away. And the stranger leaned close. "You want to know why your grandfather sent me?" Every year in Riverbend, the unmarried women lined up at the town chapel on regatta day to draw a slip. Red meant you were chosen — your future husband's family would come for you on a festival boat, and you'd be married before sundown. I'd drawn seven times. Seven white slips. One by one, the girls I grew up with were carried off on festival boats while I stood on the dock and watched. Twenty-three years old and running out of time. The night before my eighth draw, I slipped into Preston Vance's house with a fistful of red slips — enough to rig the whole thing. That's when I heard him in the courtyard, voice low, talking to his brother. "Switch Cla
