A cold, steely wind whipped off the black Atlantic.
The last gasp of sunset cleaved the clouds, leveled above the horizon like a blade of gold.
Mare stood at the prow of the great ship, the last of the passengers to the brave the weather and descent of night. She lifted her hand to her brow, caught the glint of two narrow gold bands on her ring finger. They'd mailed off their letters—apologies, mostly, that the family and friends of the young lovers would not indeed be able to attend the wedding—and left at first light.
They'd spent only three days in the Philadelphia hotel, awaiting their appointment and the proper paperwork. Doing terribly improper things in all of their unfilled hours.
Now they were off—to Canada, first, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland and beyond. After, to England and France and Mare wanted to return to Wales, as well; they'd visit Teddy's extended family in the United Kingdom and from there, from there, from there—wish and will and writing would be their compass.
Mare had an idea, too, of her next story.
It had come to her in feathered wisps and sunrises, broken gold and rosy on the hotel wall through frosted glass. The heroine was built on the prow of this ship, and deep in its belly, in the cabin amid the cots, the roar of black waves breaking against the portholes. She was made up of the cold stars that shone in an autumn sky above the sea, and of champagne on the deck and a man's amber eyes.
That girl—yet nameless—was soon to meet her awaiting adventure, as all of Mare's heroines did and would. Where would it take her, Mare wondered? As far as her story had taken her? Over seas, across countries and borders, into and out of and back to the arms of a lover?
Mare smiled against the bluster of the wind. The world had already shrunk away. There were no cities or mountains in sight, only the flooded fields of this great and vast ocean, with its unknowable depths and its unimaginable strength.
Mare, she thought, looking at the water. My reflection. Me.
Where would that storied heroine go?
Sunset deified her there, turning the clouds to filigree, the sea to a sheet of gold leaf. It was fleeting, that brilliance, but it would live in Mare's mind forever, immortal as words, stories, love.
Where would she go?
Mare closed her eyes, smiling still, and spoke the word aloud, like a promise.
"Everywhere."
THE END
YOU ARE READING
Star's Crossing
Historical Fiction{WATTY'S 2020 WINNER & EDITOR'S PICK.} Hopeless romantic and aspiring writer Mare Atwood has fallen madly in love with her childhood correspondent. There's only one catch-she doesn't know who he is. When the beaus of Star's Crossing return from boa...
