“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.”