From the corner of my eye, I glance at my escort. Daniel Poole isn’t a handsome man. His hair is a bit long and his shoulders somewhat stooped. He is, however, the first man to pay me serious attention. If he holds my arm a little too snugly for propriety, he isn’t obvious about it as we wander across the Common.
“Tell me, Goodwife Solart, though wife ye’ve yet to be, how is it a lass such as yerself lacks a husband?”
“I have no dowry,” I say simply.
“I find myself astonished. Does yer family not provide for ye?”
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