Star's Crossing

46: The Long Journey

Mare's first impression of Philadelphia was that it was terribly loud.

Carts blew by in the streets, wheels popping in and out of ruts, coronating unlucky passerby in sprays of mud and innocent bystanders with a hail of answering profanities. Mare's mother had opted to remain in Star's Crossing until Mare's father returned from Boston, but Matilde, loath to spend another moment outside of 'civilized society', was practically waiting on her bags when Mare woke up this morning.

Now the pair cruised along the road toward Mollie's townhome, just beyond the hazy, cacophonous city's limits. The carriage ride had been quite agonizing and Mare's backside ached, each muddy step sending a jolt through her heels.

"Ah," said Matilde, whose stride was gallant and undeterred. "Do not you crave the scent of the city?"

Mare appraised her sister with some skepticism. Matilde of course felt at home here, as she did in New York and Boston and even Montreal, and her purposeful gait, stylish suit, and pinned curls only satisfied the image of a metropolitan woman in Mare's eyes. She felt a little pang of jealousy.

"Indeed," she said simply as they halted on a curb to allow a messenger to sprint past, elbows jaunting. "I find myself beguiled by the perfumes of smoke, sweat, and suffering." Mare watched a pair of newsies traipse by, barefoot and soot-faced. She rubbed her arms.

Her second impression of the city was that it was cruel, or ambivalent in the most diplomatic of lights. In that way, it differed sharply from Star's Crossing, which on a good day was over-involved and on a bad, exclusive. Somehow, though, Mare didn't miss her lovely Connecticut home one bit today.

As if it took even a consideration as to why.

"Ah, there it is. See, there? Up the lane? With the white trim and that ostentatious widow's walk."

Though Matilde pointed and continued jittering on about the custom porch and the inlaid-cobble walkway and the personal postbox, Mare couldn't pick out which of the perfectly matched suburban townhouses belonged to her eldest sister. Each looked utterly, defiantly the same. Side by side, one after the other. Mare smirked, amused. She couldn't help but think of the coming out galas, girls all in taffeta, lined before boys like prize game at the end of a musket.

"Vow to be sweet," said Matilde with a warning in her voice as they ascended the porch and rapped at the door. "No matter what she says."

Mare smiled and nodded, waiting until Matilde looked the part of satisfied and returned her attention to the call.

"I never vow to be anything," Mare said to her sister's chagrin, "if I can help it."

***

Mare's eldest sister looked younger than Mare felt.

"Oh, Thom and the boys are at the park," she said, pouring tea herself. Leslie, Mollie's maid, paled to white like a sheet. Mollie straightened and glared at her. "Back to the kitchen, Leslie," she snapped. "And I mean it."

Leslie took a fragile step toward the tea setting, fingers outstretched as though to pour for the mistress of the house. "My lady, if I could only—"

"You are here as a formality and nothing more," Mare's sister said, blue eyes narrowing. "Now go, or I'll have Thom drive you straight home the minute he gets in."

Leslie hung her head, looking dejected, and woefully retreated through a pair of fine, gilded French doors.

Matilde raised her eyebrows, sipping her tea and sitting straight-backed as a proper lady on the sofa. "Why the cold shoulder, sister?"