The Traitor's Kiss Page 2

  “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.”

  “Use it liberally. Are these scars all over your arms, child?”

  Sage sighed. Most were so old and minor they could only be seen if looked for.

  “Her father was a woodsman,” Braelaura reminded the dressmaker. “She spent a lot of time outdoors before she came to us.”

  Mistress Tailor drew a bony finger down a long red scratch. “Some of these are recent. What have you been doing, climbing trees?” Sage shrugged, and the woman dropped her arm. “I shouldn’t complain,” she said dryly. “All your wardrobe repairs over the years have kept me afloat.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Sage retorted, spirit rising a bit. Anger was more comfortable than fear.

  The dressmaker ignored her and rubbed the stray end of Sage’s braid between her fingers. “Neither brown nor blond,” she grumbled. “I don’t know what color to put with this.” She glanced at Sage’s aunt. “What do you plan to do with it for the evaluation?”

  “Haven’t decided,” said Braelaura. “When we pull it back, it always escapes. It takes curling well, despite the fine texture.”

  “Hmmm.” The dressmaker jerked Sage’s chin around to look in her eyes, and Sage resisted the urge to bite the woman’s fingers. “Gray … Maybe blue will bring some color to her eyes.” She released her hold. “Gah! Those freckles.”

  Aster tilted her head in bewilderment. She’d always been envious of those freckles. When she was three, Sage caught her trying to make her own with ink.

  “Blue, then,” Mistress Tailor said, calling Sage’s attention back to her, though once again, she addressed Aunt Braelaura. She turned to dig through the enormous trunk set off to the side. “I’ve got something that will suit, but I’ll be up all night taking it in to fit her.”

  The seamstress lifted a mass of fabric and shook the folds out, revealing a blue-violet monstrosity Sage couldn’t even imagine walking in. Gold-threaded designs—undoubtedly itchy—wound around the long sleeves and in similar patterns over the bodice. The low neckline had a draped collar, which would probably be embellished further to create fullness.

  “It’s off the shoulders,” Mistress Tailor said as Braelaura and Hannah oohed and aahed. “Hers are rather nice; we should show them. But that means no breastband.”

  Sage snorted. It wasn’t like she really needed one anyway.

  3

  THE TWO-STORY, WHITEWASHED building loomed out of the October mist. Sage hopped down from the wagon as soon as it stopped, so focused on the matchmaker’s house, she didn’t notice the mud puddle until she found herself sitting in it. Her aunt sighed as she heaved Sage up by her elbow and hustled her into the bathing room around the back. “Don’t worry,” Braelaura soothed. “This is why everyone prepares here.”

  Mistress Tailor was already waiting inside to help with last-minute adjustments. Sage wasted no time shedding her muddy clothes and climbing into the warm bath. “Rinse your hands, then keep them out of the water,” Braelaura instructed. “Or your nail paint will peel off.”

  “How am I supposed to get clean?” In response, her aunt picked up a washcloth and began scrubbing Sage’s back. Sage cringed but endured it. She just wanted this day to be over.

  Once Braelaura was satisfied, Sage clambered out and toweled herself dry, then stood shivering as smoothing creams were spread over her shoulders, neck, and arms. Her body was dabbed with powder. “It itches,” she complained.

  Braelaura swatted her. “Don’t scratch; you’ll ruin your nails. The powder will keep you dry from sweat.”

  “It smells like chamomile. I hate chamomile.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody hates chamomile; it’s soothing.”

  I guess I’m nobody. Sage held her arms up as her aunt wrapped the corset around her waist. Spirit above, it was the most uncomfortable thing she’d ever worn. The boning dug into her hips as Braelaura tightened the laces, trying to get it snug enough to hold in place. When Sage stepped into the first of three petticoats, the corset shifted and jabbed her in new places.

  Mistress Tailor and Aunt Braelaura lifted the dress over Sage’s head, and she shoved her freezing arms into the long sleeves. The pair then fussed around her, pulling the dress straight and adjusting it for the most cleavage before lacing the bodice in front. Sage swept her fingers over the velvet and lace flowing off her shoulders. After the interview, the dress would hang in her wardrobe until the day—months or years from now—she was presented to the man Mistress Rodelle had chosen for her.

  While a man could approach a matchmaker about a girl he admired, it was ultimately the
matchmaker’s decision as to whether they should be paired. Often couples knew very little of each other before they wed. A fresh start was considered advantageous. Sage shared her father’s disgust at that idea, but supposedly, matches were based on temperament—even the highly political ones, like those at the Concordium.

  Marriages made outside the system were rarely stable or happy, though Sage suspected that had a great deal to do with how self-matched couples were ostracized. Perhaps Sage could convince her uncle to at least let her get to know this potential husband first. After all, he’d known Aunt Braelaura for years before they were matched. The thought gave her a glimmer of hope she’d not had before.

  Aunt Braelaura moved her to a stool and draped a linen sheet over the outfit so they could paint her face. The twisting rags from last night were removed and Sage’s hair cascaded in ringlets down her back. The two women pulled the curls away from Sage’s face with pearl-studded pins, exposing her shoulders. Mistress Tailor made a noise of approval and handed Aunt Braelaura the first of many cosmetic jars.

  “Do you think Uncle William will let me meet my match before he gives his consent?” Sage asked as her aunt spread cream across her cheeks.

  Braelaura looked surprised. “Of course he will.”

  “And what if I don’t like him?”

  Her aunt avoided her eyes as she dipped her fingers in the jar again. “We don’t always like what’s good for us,” she said. “Especially at first.”

  Sage couldn’t help wondering if Braelaura was referring to her own match, but she was more concerned with hers at the moment. “So if Uncle William thinks this man is good for me, it won’t matter what I say?”

  “Honestly, Sage,” her aunt sighed. “I think it’s more likely you won’t give the man a fair chance to win you over. You’re so set against him, and he doesn’t even exist yet.”

  Sage lapsed into a sullen silence, and Braelaura tapped her cheek. “Don’t pout. I can’t do this properly if you make such a face.”

  She tried to relax her brow, but her thoughts made it impossible. Her uncle’s desire to have her settled and out of his hair would weigh heavily against his wanting to do right by her. He’d likely consent to the first man he thought wouldn’t mistreat her, but that wasn’t a recipe for happiness. Sage brooded as her aunt continued to apply creams and color to her face for what felt like an hour. At last she held up a hand mirror so Sage could see the result.

  “There,” Braelaura said. “You look lovely.”

  Sage stared at her reflection with morbid fascination. Not a freckle showed through the smooth ivory paint. Her lips were bloodred in striking contrast to her pallor, and her high cheekbones had an unnatural hint of pink. Violet powder on her eyelids made her gray eyes appear almost blue, which was probably the intention, but they were barely visible between her curled and blackened lashes.

  “Is this what ladies at court look like every day?” she asked.

  Her aunt rolled her eyes. “No, this is what a nobleman’s bride looks like. What do you think?”

  Sage twisted her scarlet lips in distaste. “I think I know why Mother ran away.”

  * * *

  Sage struggled to balance in the ridiculously heeled shoes as they made their way from the washroom to the front of the house. At the porch steps, Sage positioned herself behind her aunt, eyes downcast and hands folded to display her painted nails. Villagers loitered in nearby doorways and gathered at windows to catch a glimpse of the newest bridal candidate, and Sage flushed under her makeup. Did they stare because they didn’t recognize her, or because they did?

  Braelaura pulled the bell by the door, and a clang echoed through the streets, drawing even more attention. The matchmaker took almost a full minute to answer the door, and a trickle of nervous sweat ran down Sage’s back.

  The door opened, and the matchmaker stood imperiously in the door frame. Darnessa Rodelle was a tall woman, nearly six feet, and her graying hair was bound in a tight knot on the back of her head. At fifty, she had the shape of a potato dumpling and the fleshy, flabby arms that bespoke a life of comfort and good food, but her mouth twisted like she smelled something offensive.

  “Madam Rodelle, Mistress of the Human Heart,” said Braelaura, in what Sage assumed was some traditional greeting. “May I present my niece, in the hope your wisdom can find a husband to match her grace, wit, and beauty?”

  Sage pulled her skirt away from her trembling knees and curtsied as low as she dared in the wretched shoes.

  “You may, Lady Broadmoor,” the matchmaker replied with a grand sweep of her hand. “Bring the maiden forth so she may honor her family name.”

  Sage rose and took a few steps forward. It felt like a play, with lines, positions, costumes—even an audience. A sick feeling began building in her stomach. None of this was real.

  “Is marriage your wish, Sage Broadmoor?”

  Sage flinched at the name change. “It is, mistress.”

  “Then enter my home so I may learn your qualities.” The matchmaker stood aside to let Sage pass.

  * * *

  Sage caught one last glimpse of Aunt Braelaura before the door closed, cutting off shadows and blending them into the gloom of the parlor. A thick, braided rug dominated the floor, with a low tea table centered on it and an upholstered sofa to one side. Though little light passed through the heavy linen drapes, Sage was relieved they were drawn against prying eyes.

  The matchmaker circled her slowly, looking up and down. Sage kept her focus on the floor. The silence became maddening. Had she forgotten something she was supposed to say? The skin under her corset itched as sweat soaked the fabric. Stupid, useless, nasty chamomile powder.

  Finally the woman directed her to an uncomfortable wooden chair. Sage lowered herself onto its edge and spread her skirts in a fan around her. She tried rotating her bodice to provide some relief from the itchy sensations. It didn’t help.

  Mistress Rodelle sat across from Sage on the wide couch and fixed her with a critical eye. “The duties of a nobleman’s wife are simple but all-consuming. She places herself first in his affections with her looks and pleasing manners…”

  The phrasing annoyed Sage. As long as she was pretty and in a good mood, her husband would love her? People needed love most when they weren’t at their best. Sage blinked and refocused on the matchmaker, but the thought stuck in her mind like a thorn.

  On and on the woman droned: she must be submissive; she must be obedient; she must be gracious; she must always agree with her husband. More about how she had to be what he wanted. The matchmaker leaned forward, tilting her head to look down her nose.

  Abruptly she realized Mistress Rodelle had stopped speaking. Had she ended with a question? Sage answered with what she hoped the woman expected, question or no. “I am ready to be all this and more for my future husband.”

  “The greatest desires of your lord…?”

  “Become my own.” Sage’s responses had been drilled late into the night. It felt absurd, though, to make such a promise when she had no idea what this husband would want. Given the exaggerated claims this dress made about her figure, he was bound to be disappointed in at least one regard. The series of questions continued, and Sage’s memory easily supplied the answers. So little effort was required, in fact, that it began to feel silly. None of the answers were her own—they were just what the matchmaker wanted to hear. The same answers every girl gave. What was the point?

  “Now, moving on,” the woman said, interrupting Sage’s thoughts. Her lips curled back in a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Let us talk about your more … intimate duties.”

  Sage drew a deep breath. “I’ve been instructed in what to expect and how to … to respond.” She hoped that would be enough to satisfy her.

  “And should your firstborn be only a daughter, what will you say when you place the child in his arms?”

  Next time I will have the strength for a son was the answer, but Sage had seen women suffer difficult pregna
ncies. Even the best of them were sick in the beginning and massively uncomfortable at the end, and that was before the laboring began. The idea of doing all the work of bearing a baby only to apologize stirred a smoldering furnace within. The heat of her anger felt delicious, and she embraced it.

  Sage raised her eyes. “I will say, ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’”

  Mistress Rodelle pinched off what initially looked like a smile before settling into annoyed expectation. “And then?”

  “I will wait for my husband to say she is almost as beautiful as me.”

  Again the smothered smile. “Girls are useless to a lord. You must be prepared to apologize.”

  Sage’s fingers curled around a fold in her dress. She’d once asked Father if he was disappointed his only child was a daughter, and he had looked her in the eye and said, Never. “Without girls, there would be no more boys.”

  “There’s no denying that,” the matchmaker snapped. “But in giving your husband no heir, you fail.”

  The last two words felt like they were meant for the present moment: you fail. What had possessed her to abandon the proper responses? Her mind scrambled to repair the damage, but nothing that wasn’t both honest and insulting would come to her lips.

  “Should you produce no heir after a time, will you stand aside for one who can?”

  What would Father say to that? Sage looked at the floor and inhaled slowly to calm the tremor in her voice. “I…”

  The matchmaker continued, “When you have a husband, Sage Broadmoor, you must endeavor to create more honor than you bring to the marriage.”

  Something inside Sage snapped when she heard that again—they were changing her name, like she should be ashamed of who she was. “Fowler,” she said. “My father’s name was Fowler, and so is mine.”

  A look of disdain crossed Mistress Rodelle’s face. “You cannot expect to be accepted with such a name. ‘Sage Broadmoor’ sounds like a bastard, but ‘Sage Fowler’ sounds like a commoner’s bastard.”

  “It is the name my parents gave me.” Sage quivered with resentment. “They valued it, and so shall I.”