Star's Crossing

45: Daring, Brave, and Beautiful

"Mother," Mare whispered, her blood like ice. "Mother, I am—"

Her mother raised one hand, not even deigning to look at Mare. Her gaze was pinned on Camden Doores, an imperious shadow at the end of the hall.

"Do not," said Mare's mother softly, "apologize to me, Mare Atwood."

Mare bit her lip and lowered her gaze. Lord. What have I done? He was right; I have courted ruin. She knew what her mother was preparing to demand. Mare knew she would be told to look at Camden Doores, stare into his black eyes and speak those words. I am sorry.

She was not certain she could endure yet another humbling defeat today.

"Daughter." Mare's mother's voice was low and sharp as a levelled blade. "You do not owe anyone an apology."

Mare straightened, mouth dropping open in surprise. When she glanced down the hall she found the boys in much the same manner, eyes wide, shoulders rigid. Three ghosts unused to be calling dead.

"What a man," Mare's mother repeated, shaking her head slowly. "To condemn a woman. Upon the pyres of a girl's reputation you set ablaze your heart and damn the ashes."

Mare stared at her mother. Who are you? Where did you find the words? Tears rose in Mare's eyes again as she reconciled this woman—strong shoulders and a lifted chin, eyes defiant, her entirety deified in morning light—with the creature who set letters ablaze and condemned every act of boldness.

Crude drawings to real roses.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Atwood," said Camden, his smile shadowed and cruel, "it is uncouth in every way to address young men of birth thus."

"I find it fascinating," her mother replied, "you believe you possess sense of the couth and un. How could you have pursued my daughter as game when you yourself are so terribly amusing?"

Camden's expression went unceremoniously slack. Teddy's eyes gleamed. Geoffrey tilted his head, face inscrutable.

"Your daughter is not blameless," Camden ventured, more cautiously now.

"How dare you?" Said Mare's mother, taking a step toward the boys. "You do not stab a woman and accuse her of bleeding on your knife."

Again Camden's eyes widened.

"Mother," Mare whispered, stunned. She thought she'd never seen a woman look braver; she thought suddenly that she'd never seen her mother. Not truly. Not like this.

The truest masks are of our own making.

"My daughter may not fit your mold," Mare's mother continued, daring another step down the corridor. This time Camden shrank back, if only infinitesimally. "She may not be the perfect lady or the perfect girl; she may be unsuitable for courtship, for marriage. She may be a wild thing. In fact, my daughter may endure a life of misery, anonymity, and failure because of who and what she is."

Mare's heart tightened. These words were painful, each a shard of glass buried deeper in her heart, still beating, still bleeding. But it is true. She is right.

"But I assure you, in equal measure she is daring, brave, and beautiful. Do you hear me, boy?" Mare's mother's voice sharpened. Camden's eyes had fallen, perhaps in shame or mere vexation, but they returned to Mare's mother's like a bow string snapped taut. "You are your father, and he was his. Man is man from the dawn of days to this one. But Mare Atwood, my daughter, is new. Singular. The world is not prepared for her, and so it will suffer. You will suffer. She will suffer. But a woman is always suffering. My daughter shall do so on her own terms."