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I don’t bother to argue that saying something she doesn’t like isn’t the same as shouting.

My stepfather scowls at me. “You will marry Victor. He’s a good man. He’ll take care of you.”

“I won’t.” My voice doesn’t shake. Each word holds the same weight as a boulder.

“You will, Scarlett,” Heston repeats.

“No.”

My stepfather’s face flushes, turning dark.

My mother, in an effort to keep the peace, interrupts him. Something she rarely does. “It’s for your own good, darling. You know, you’re very lucky to have a man interested in marrying you, especially at your advanced age.”

“If you feel a woman would be lucky to marry Victor, you’re welcome to offer yourself up. He is about your age, after all.”

I can’t suppress my flinch when Heston’s fist crashes onto the tabletop. He’s always shown as much disapproval for me as my mother, but it was always of the silent variety. Even when he and my mother argue… well, he shows unhappiness, which leads to my mother apologizing profusely and asking for forgiveness… however, he remains calm and unruffled.

Now, his face is nearly purple with rage as he glares at me. My eyes linger on the vein throbbing in his temple. His knuckles are white from how tightly his hand is fisted. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in such an enraged state.

“You will marry Victor Woodward or be thrown out of this house, Scarlett.”

I can’t stop myself from looking toward my mother, but she only shakes her head. I shouldn’t expect her to defend me. She never has before. She’s also been after me for nearly a decade to find a man to marry. In the year leading up to my eighteenth birthday, I think she threw me at every available boy in the village and even some men who had no business looking at someone my age.

Including Victor Woodward.

It shouldn’t surprise me that she has no problem with a man nearly twenty years my senior wanting to marry me, whether I’m willing or not. In truth, I expected something like this years ago. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

“Very well,” I say, getting to my feet.

Heston relaxes, his fingers uncurling from their tight knot. A tremulous smile begins to spread across my mother’s lips.

“I’ll go pack my things.”

My mother gasps. “What?”

The purplish tinge returns to Heston’s complexion as he blusters, “How dare you… you ungrateful, spiteful wench.”

I ignore his words as I walk out of the kitchen, heading toward the narrow, steep staircase up to my little sleeping loft. The space is all but empty except for my bed and small wardrobe.

Because my focus has always been on saving money, I don’t spare much for pretty dresses, trinkets, or jewelry. Something I’m thankful for now as I quickly pack up my clothes and shoes in my canvas bag. Along with the other coin purse I’d hidden in a hole in the wall beneath my bed.

I’ve been saving since I was sixteen. It took me years to refine my talent for combining herbs, flowers, and roots into healing tinctures, potions, and salves. Then, it took a few more to convince the local healers, midwives, and apothecaries to pay me the appropriate coin for my creations.

I take my covered basket from my worktable and begin to fill it with my meager equipment. First is my book. My grandmother, Vera, often jokes that it’s my recipe book but I treat it more as a journal. It holds everything I’ve learned about plants over the years, recipes for tinctures and poultices. Even a few notes on how phases of the moon affect the efficacy of certain herbs and flowers.

I place my ink pot and pen in a wooden box to prevent spilling before tucking them into the basket. A small wooden mortar and pestle follows. A pair of sharp knives for cutting plants and roots. Twine to tie bundles for drying. Spirits for steeping tinctures. And thin cheesecloth sachets for creating tea blends. On top of these things, I carefully pack my bundles of herbs and flowers in various stages of drying.

I should be sad my entire existence fits in a single bag and a woven basket with a lid. Instead, I’m relieved I don’t have more to carry.

As I come down the stairs, my mother and Heston are waiting for me by the door.

“Scarlett, you’re being unreasonable,” my mother tries. “You’re eight and twenty now. You should be married and have several children already.”

“I don’t want to be married with several children, Mother. I’ve said it for over a decade. You choose not to listen.”

Heston moves in front of the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “You won’t defy me in this, Scarlett. If you think pretending you’re leaving will change my mind, you are mistaken.”

“I’m not pretending anything, Stepfather,” I reply, reaching for my cloak. “I am leaving. I refuse to marry Victor. Now or in the future. I would rather live in a cave in the forest than be chained to him.”