Star's Crossing

8: The Blood of Enemies

For once in her life, Mare wished the carriage ride longer.

As a general rule, she was not partial to the jostling of bumpy roads or chafing velvet cushions. Mare preferred riding, when she could. Her father owned two horses, both quite old now, but Alison's mother adored the animals and kept seven at the estate.

One, a young, gleaming chestnut mare called Guinevere, refused to be ridden by any but Mrs. Watt. Mare liked her best, though the beast would never allow her to ride. Mare supposed she liked the challenge of the horse's stubbornness, and the daring gleam in her black eyes.

It was chilly in the carriage, and Mare felt at once suffocated and exposed. Though she'd anticipated the gala for years, some timid part of her wished she could command Mr. Henry to the shoulder, kick open the door, and leap from the buggy.

If she ran fast enough, she imagined she might reach the Watt estate, break into the stables, and seize Guinevere once and for all. The pair would dash, knight and steed, into the vast unknown wilderness. Two unbreakable, unlovable, strange beasts.

Alas. Mare had no choice but to obey convention to an extent. And she knew, beneath her fear, her racing heart, her icy veins-that tonight, tonight, could mean everything. If only she had the courage to face it.

She touched the rose in her lap, delivered an hour past by her father with a warm smile. Both of Mare's parents had carried on to the gala, leaving her with Jenelle, the maid, to finish preparations; namely, Mare's corset and petticoat. She'd been distracted during her fitting the morning before, Theodore and his brother and cousin fresh in her mind, and wished now she'd paid more attention.

Her mother and the seamstress had taken the liberty of drawing the neckline lower than any Mare had worn before, even at her coming out. It was the style these days, she knew-lace and taffeta, chiffon and silk. It was all very fine, of course, from a distance. Mare wasn't so separate from her own taste that she couldn't admire a fine gown or hat, or even the lady in it. But upon her own arms, the satin felt garish, the lace trim ostentatious.

Would he think so?

She stripped a glove from arm to wrist, pulled each finger free. Against her palm the rose petals were softer than the silk, and cooler, as though the brisk spring air that fed them remained within. Her fingers trembled as she slipped the short stem into her curls, already frizzing in the evening moisture. She knew she should don the blossom like a crown, yet couldn't help feeling it a target.

Then again, if Mare found herself in a crosshair tonight, so would he. They would bleed together at the feet of Star's Crossing, as the lovers did in Greek tragedies or Shakespeare. Mare was of a new league, starting now, occupied by all of the great, tragic, romantic women of lore and legend: Katherine or Helen of Troy, even Madame Bovary.

She smoothed her dress as the dance hall glittered into view: strands of lights and glowing lanterns, gala-goers traipsing up the walk and stairs in all manner of finery. Mare saw pearls in hair and jewel earrings the size of quail eggs, and imagined them all pried from crowns and scepters, wrested from the chests and coffins of long-buried queens.

Tonight was a night for splendor and romance, for drama, intrigue, beauty. Tomorrow was today. Then was now. Mare sat at the desk of destiny, her quill dipped in ink, her fingers against a fresh page. She was the writer. This was her story.

Today, Mare Atwood's life truly began.

She took a deep breath, stepped down from the carriage on Mr. Henry's hand, and turned to face her future.