“Nicely put. It’s a shame your words weren’t so refined the other day.”
Sage was growing weary of this exercise in humility. One could serenade a stone wall for hours, but it would never weep in response. “My father once told me there are some animals that can’t be controlled,” she said, picking at her painted fingernails. “It doesn’t make them bad, just wild beyond taming.”
To her surprise, the matchmaker smiled. “I think, girl, you’re seeing yourself clearly for the first time.” Sage raised her eyes to find a piercing, but much less hostile, gaze. “For a teacher, you’re incredibly obstinate about learning your own lessons.”
“I study every day,” Sage objected.
“I’m not talking about history and geography.” Mistress Rodelle waved her hand in irritation. “Look at me. I can barely read and write, yet I hold your future and the future of girls all across Demora in the palm of my hand. Not all wisdom comes from books. In fact, hardly any does.”
Sage wrestled with the matchmaker’s words. She wanted to reject them, but they sounded like something her father would have said.
The matchmaker stood and turned to the stove. She poured tea into the pair of cups as she spoke. “Now, I am sorry for what I said the other day. I aimed only to make you realize how much you didn’t want to be matched.” Sage’s eyes widened, and Mistress Rodelle glanced over her shoulder with a shrewd smile. “Yes, I understand you well enough, and no, I never had any intention of foisting you on anyone.”
“But—”
“And now your uncle realizes it, too, and he’ll be more open to what I do want.” She turned around and looked Sage straight in the eye. “I want you as an apprentice.”
Sage shoved away from the table and stood. “No. Matchmaking is backward and demeaning. I hate it.”
Mistress Rodelle set the cups and saucers on the table placidly, acting as though Sage wasn’t halfway to the door. “Would it surprise you to learn I once felt the same way?” She eased back down into her chair. “You won’t necessarily have to take my place someday. I just need an assistant.”
Sage turned back, astonished. “Why me?”
The matchmaker folded her arms and leaned back in her chair, drawing a long groan from the wood. “You are intelligent and driven, if not yet wise. Your looks are pleasing, but you’re not a beauty men will be dazzled by. I have the Concordium next year, and I could use some help picking the best candidates. Finally, you have no wish to marry, so you won’t stab me in the back.”
“How could I possibly do that?” Sage asked. “Stab you in the back, I mean.”
“One of the simplest ways to get the result you want is to create a false choice.” She flicked her fingers at Sage. “I can offer a man the choice between the girl I want him to marry and you, acting as a pleasant but less appealing option, and I don’t have to worry about you bucking the process and stealing him for yourself.” The matchmaker calmly raised her cup to her lips and blew the steam away.
“So you want me to be rejected over and over,” Sage said, sinking back into the chair. “That’s what I’m good for?”
Mistress Rodelle leaned her elbows on the table and eyed Sage over the tea. “That and other things. Matchmaking is primarily a task of reading people, collecting information, and piecing it together, which you have talents for. It’s also not really rejection if you were aiming for it. Think of it as a game where the lowest score is the winner.”
Sage wrinkled her nose. “Sounds manipulative.”
“So it is. While blacksmiths bend iron to their will, matchmakers bend people to theirs.” She took a sip and shrugged. “We aren’t alone in our vocation. Actors and storytellers manipulate their audiences as well.”
Sage eyed the teacup before her. The high-quality porcelain was sturdy and functional, just what she would expect in the home of a well-off but practical person. One who valued quality over looks. The matchmaker had known exactly when and how she would come to her. Sage raised the cup and took in the sweet whisper of spearmint—her favorite—rather than the more popular peppermint or chamomile. “How long have you been watching me?” she asked.
“Most of your life, but don’t be flattered—I watch everyone. I knew your parents. They may have thought they matched themselves, but some of my work is subtle.”
Sage’s head rocked back like she’d been shoved. The cup in her hand dropped a few inches. “That doesn’t sound profitable,” she retorted. “How’d you collect your fee for that one?”
Mistress Rodelle arched her eyebrows with an amused look, and Sage plunked the cup back onto the saucer, sloshing tea over the side. She knew the answer already. “Your large fee for my aunt’s match came from Mother’s forfeited dowry.”
The matchmaker nodded. “It was quite a tidy profit, actually. I have no regrets. Your parents belonged together.”
Sage’s only response was an openmouthed stare.
After several seconds of silence, the matchmaker rose from her chair. “You may think about my offer for a few days, but I doubt anyone else in the village will offer you a place,” she said. “I’m not taking anything from your future. We both know you cannot be matched, wild Sage.”
Sage stood and let herself be guided to the door. Before the matchmaker closed it, Sage heard her name called. She looked back over her shoulder.
“Your family expects a visitor today, yes?”
Sage nodded. A young lord was to go hunting with Uncle William, though his secondary purpose of being introduced to her was now pointless.
“Consider him an exercise in observation,” said Mistress Rodelle. “When you come back to see me, be ready to tell me all about him.”
5
CAPTAIN ALEXANDER QUINN peered over the jagged edge of a rock jutting from the hillside and squinted through the trees. The bright glade spread out below him, making it impossible for him to be seen in the shadows above, but he still crouched to stay hidden. His black leather jacket creaked a little, and he flinched at the sound, though it wasn’t loud enough to give him away.