organizations or locales is completely coincidental.
“I hear Yeoman Percivus is looking for a wife.” Glauca made the announcement as she refilled jars with dried herbs Emerence had sorted for her. “He’s a wealthy farmer. He just bought his neighbor’s holdings to increase his own.”
Emerence sighed inwardly as she weighed dried rosehips on a scale. Her cousin was an unashamed matchmaker. A relentless one as well. “I wish him well. His income will guarantee no lack of candidates interested in becoming the third Madam Percivus.
Glauca clucked her disapproval at Emerence’s obvious disinterest. “I’ve met him. He’s pleasant and his children well-behaved. Both of his wives seemed happy. A shame one died in childbirth and the other from lung fever. But that wasn’t his fault.”
Emerence paused in her task to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. “If I didn’t already know you were happily married, I’d think you were considering throwing in your ribbon for a chance at becoming the newest Percivus bride.”
This time Glauca sniffed, as if Emerence’s teasing carried a bad scent. She closed the lid on the jar she’d filled and reached for another. “I would but as you say, I’m married. You, however, are not, nor are you getting any younger. Yeoman Percivus would be perfect. He isn’t in his dotage, already has several children, and has a purse fat enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life with no need to birth more children for him.”
“Sounds glorious,” Emerence said dryly. She loved her cousin and knew Glauca loved her in return. It was why she remained so persistent in her quest to see Emerence married even after others had given up their matchmaking attempts years earlier. Still, there were times, like now, when Emerence found her efforts more annoying than endearing.
“I’m perfectly content with my life as it is, cousin. I manage two shops, own my own home, and control my time as I see fit.” Emerence sometimes envied the companionship other women of her acquaintance shared with their spouses and offspring, but she’d seen a similar envy of her in the eyes of some of those wives and mothers shackled by the demands of marriage and parenthood. She wasn’t afraid of such bonds; she just had no intention of rushing toward them just for the sake of avoiding the stigma of spinsterhood.
“But you’re almost seven and thirty,” Glauca all but wailed, as if such a ripe old age heralded Emerence’s impending doom.
Emerence couldn’t help it. She laughed and continued laughing despite Glauca’s glare. Once her spate of humor subsided, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “You say that as if I’m at death’s door. I assure you my life will not end at the arrival of seven and thirty.” She uttered the last in a voice pitched low as if another year in her lifespan would thunder past her instead of breeze by as every year always did, hardly marked, barely noticed.
“Don’t you want a husband?” Glauca wrenched the lid closed on the jar she held and yanked another empty one toward her. “You can’t live with your father and Linnett forever.”
Emerence shrugged, dividing her attention between Glauca’s task and her own of pulverizing a batch of nightshade in a mortar with a pestle. “I don’t live with them,” she said. “I live next door as you well know, and I never said I didn’t want a husband, only that I won’t settle for one.”
“Same thing, Emerence.”
“No it isn’t.” She had no illusions regarding the existence of the perfect man. She just preferred to wait for one who was perfect for her. If he never showed, well that was a risk worth taking in her opinion.
The two women fell silent as they continued to work. These were the darkest days of winter, just before the Festival of Delyalda, and those citizens of Timsiora sick with coughs and other lung ailments were numerous. One of the shops Emerence’s father owned was this apothecary, and this was its busiest season. Emerence and Glauca had worked long hours already restocking the shelves from the rapidly diminishing inventory of herbs and spices while in the front room where products were displayed and sold, a small army of clerks dealt with a steady stream of customers.
“I just don’t want you to be unhappy,” Glauca finally said, breaking the silence. She opened a jar of glue and fished a paintbrush from her apron pocket.
Emerence slid her a stack of labels with the names of various concoctions and