“Do you really think William will give you to someone who will treat you poorly?”
No, she didn’t, but Sage turned back to her packing to avoid answering. Uncle William had ridden day and night to fetch her as soon as he heard about Father’s death. Then, when she ran away a few months later, he tracked her for days until he found her at the bottom of a ravine, too broken and frozen to climb out. He’d never said a word in rebuke, just lifted her up and carried her home.
A voice inside whispered that this matching was an honor, a gift. It declared she was part of the family, not just a poor relative he was forced to support. It was the best he had to offer.
It would be so much easier if she could hate him.
Sage felt her aunt’s hand on her shoulder, and she stiffened. “He must have put down quite a sum to get her to take me.”
“I’ll not deny it.” Braelaura’s smile leaked into her tone. “But Mistress Rodelle wouldn’t have agreed if she didn’t see some potential.” She brushed a dozen stray hairs away from Sage’s face. “Do you think you’re not ready? It’s not as difficult as you think.”
“The interview or being someone’s wife?” Sage refused to relax.
“Both,” Braelaura said. “The interview is a matter of presenting yourself. As for being a wife—”
“Father told me how babies are made.” Sage flushed.
Braelaura continued as though Sage hadn’t interrupted. “I’ve been teaching you how to run a household for years, if you haven’t noticed. You did just fine last spring when I was ill. William was very pleased.” Her hand lowered to rub Sage’s back. “You could have a comfortable home and some little ones. Would that be so bad?”
Sage felt herself leaning into the soothing pressure. A home of her own. Away from this place. Though to be honest, it wasn’t this place she hated so much as the memories.
“Mistress Rodelle will find a husband who needs someone like you,” Braelaura said. “She’s the best at what she does.”
“Uncle William said it could take years.”
“So it may,” her aunt agreed. “All the more reason not to let emotions drive your actions now.”
Sage set the bag down in the wardrobe, feeling defeated.
Braelaura stood on her tiptoes to kiss Sage’s cheek. “I’ll be there for you, every step, in place of your mother.”
Since her aunt rarely mentioned Sage’s mother, Sage wanted to ask questions before the subject changed, but twelve-year-old Hannah burst into the room, blond curls bouncing. Sage scowled. “Don’t you ever knock?”
Hannah ignored her. “Is it true, Mother? Is Sage going to the matchmaker? The high matchmaker?”
Aunt Braelaura hooked an arm around Sage’s waist as though to keep her from running away. “Yes, she is.”
Sage continued glaring at her cousin. “Do you actually have anything important to say?”
Hannah gestured behind her. “The dressmaker’s here.”
A cold sweat broke out over Sage. Already?
Hannah turned wide blue eyes to Sage. “Will she pick you for the Concordium, do you think?”
“Ha!” came thirteen-year-old Jonathan’s barking laugh from the passageway behind Hannah. He was carrying a trunk. “I’d like to see that.”
Sage felt sick. When was the interview? She’d interrupted Uncle William before he’d said. Braelaura began guiding her to the door, where Hannah bounced on the balls of her feet. “She’s setting up in the schoolroom.”
“When am I going?” Sage managed to ask.
“Tomorrow, love,” said Braelaura. “In the afternoon.”
“Tomorrow? But how can I possibly have a new dress made by then?”
“Mistress Tailor will adjust something she has on hand. She’ll go over with us in the morning.”
Sage let herself be led across the hall and stood numbly as Braelaura pulled the laces of her bodice loose enough for Sage to slip out. The room darkened suddenly, and Sage thought for a second she was fainting, but it was only Hannah and Aster pulling the curtains across the window. When they were done, Aster perched on a chair in the corner, obviously hoping, if no one noticed her, she could stay. Hannah danced around, chattering about how she couldn’t wait for her own interview, and did Mother think Father would let her be evaluated at fifteen even though she couldn’t be matched until the year after?
Her cousin also still imagined Sage had a chance at getting into the Concordium. Sage had no such delusions. The high matchmaker’s primary job was to select the best from her region for the conference held every five years, but Sage wouldn’t have wanted to go even if she was pretty or rich enough to be considered. She had no desire to be herded across the country to Tennegol and practically auctioned off like a prize head of cattle. Hannah, however, fantasized about it, as did girls all across Demora.
Braelaura pulled the dress off Sage’s shoulders. The outfit was one of several she had and hated. How bizarrely unfair to have so many things she didn’t want. Most girls would kill just to be evaluated by a high matchmaker.
Mistress Tailor was sorting through a basket on the table, but she paused long enough to point to the stool she’d set out. “Up,” she commanded. “We’ve no time to waste.”
Braelaura helped Sage step up and steadied her when the stool wobbled under her feet. She fought a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with keeping her balance.
“Shift off,” said the dressmaker over her shoulder. Sage cringed and lifted her under-dress over her head and handed it to her aunt. Normally a fitting didn’t require full stripping—just a knotted cord measuring over her shift. She crossed her arms over her breastband and shivered, glad the window was covered against breezes as well as eyes.
Mistress Tailor turned around and frowned at Sage’s undergarments. The boyish linen shorts were the only thing Braelaura had let Sage continue wearing when they forced her into dresses. The shorts were far more comfortable than what women wore, and nobody could see them anyway.
The dressmaker pursed her lips and squinted at Sage from several angles. “Thinness is her main weakness,” she muttered. “We’ll have to fill her out, especially on top.”
Sage rolled her eyes as she imagined all the padding and ruffles it would take to disguise her flat chest. Braelaura had given up putting lace and bows on her dresses long ago. They always had catastrophic encounters with scissors when no one was looking.
Cold fingers pinched her waist. “Good curve here, and solid birthing hips. We can emphasize that.”
Sage felt like the horse her uncle had bought last month. Solid hamstrings make a good breeder, the horse trader had said, smacking the mare’s flank. This one can be mounted for ten more years.
The dressmaker lifted Sage’s arm to scrutinize it in better light. “Naturally fair skin, but too many freckles.”
Braelaura nodded. “Cook’s already brewing lemon lotion for that.”