Star's Crossing

15: The Truest Masks

Ms. Cressida sighed, gazing out the schoolhouse window. It was a small, quaint three-room structure comprised of the classroom, store room, and one small office, where Ms. Cressida sat now with a pot of tea before her, and three cups.

"I have to apologize, Mare." Ms. Cressida smiled emphatically, sliding the sugar bowl toward Lilith, who sat as stiff-backed and prim as if she were attending a party rather than a strange, conspiratorial rendezvous. She declined the sugar and sipped her tea black, eyes on their former instructor, blank and sharp as cut amethyst. "I'm afraid I simply don't have the room or reason to retain files after students have left my tutelage."

Mare felt that bird-boned thing within her snap, and bowed her head. Another defeat. She was beginning to believe victory was not in her stars.

"Ms. Cressida," said Lilith without missing a beat. She replaced her tea, hands folded in her lap. "You were the recipient of the letters from the beginning. Was there ever an indication from where they'd come or who sent them? Postage? Dates? Handwriting? Did you ever read any of the letters?"

"Oh," said Ms. Cressida with a bright laugh, "certainly not. Though not for lack of wishing to. From the moment I read Mare's letter I knew her fate had changed; she'd taken a dive, a risk. She became a catalyst, triggering all that would follow in her future."

Though Mare was not fond of taking responsibility for all that had transpired since she'd sent that letter, Ms. Cressida's words warmed her heart. She held her instructor's eyes and allowed a smile. "You always see so much more in me than I've got."

"No, no!" Ms. Cressida flapped a hand dismissively, and Mare was reminded of a ruffled bird. "You always see less than you are, because you wish to be less than you are. That is, tragically, so often the woman's place in society, is it not? We smooth all of our edges so men don't get poked." She winked, and Mare was unpleasantly reminded of all of the cold, barbed words she'd heard spoken of Ms. Cressida over the years.

Spinster. Unattached.

Free.

Free was never meant in any sense of liberation, but rather the opposite-a trap of one's own making, a prison, a future of sworn solitude and financial and emotional poverty. Ms. Cressida was discussed as a barren field, a waste, a homely vantage between the pastures of Star's Crossing.

But Mare saw a great deal more in her teacher as she tutted and fixed tea for the young women before her, babbling a bit, as she had a habit of doing, about Margaret Fuller and The Dial. Ms. Cressida's color was full, her voice proud, eyes bright as stars. There was nothing sad about a woman in utter control of her life, Mare realized; a woman who made unpopular choices, and had the resolve and dignity to preserve them in the face of criticism. With a smile, no less. As though her life was a battle won.

No matter what anyone else said, or did.

Mare had never allowed Ms. Cressida to read any of her writer's letters. It felt an intrusion, as though she'd opened his chest with a surgeon's scalpel and offered his heart, easy and ripe as an apple. But now, with her own words spilled flagrantly across the face of every citizen's Gazette, she did not feel so wary. So afraid.

She did not feel so kind.

Mare pulled his letter from her sleeve and smoothed it on the desk, halting Ms. Cressida in her steps. Ms. Cressida stared down at the parchment, wrinkled, soft at the edges. She touched the ink with irreverent fingers.