Star's Crossing

47: All Inferno Requires

Mare chose to remain behind when her sisters went to the station to greet Madrigal. It'd been several years since Mare had seen her second-eldest sister, who frequented London more than the states, and her letters had ceased appearing in the post nearly as long ago. Mare always thought Madrigal took the most after their mother, which in recent days, seemed less a reason to avoid her than to seek her council.

But the last week had been a whirlwind of housework—an alien but welcome distraction given Leslie's condition—as well as paying calls around the loud, busy suburbs of the city. Nights consisted mostly of brandy and scouring the local papers for odd bits of news or stories that summoned a laugh.

Mare played with her nephews when they were home from class, gathering her skirts to chase them through the yard, batting them with nets as they attempted to catch summer locusts and broad-winged butterflies. And at night, the three of them crept beneath the cypress and oaks, bent at the knee in pursuit of lightning bugs. Captured, Mare thought they looked like wil-o'-the-wisps, coaxing them all deeper into the dark.

All in all, Mare had more than enjoyed her time in the big city. She found her brother-in-law Thom to be most charming, and his adoration of both his boys and Mare's sister was more than romantic; it was the stuff of great poems and Shakespearean sonnets. It was true and real, stoic as the old bur oak in Star's Crossing. It required no daggers in hearts nor poisons in vials; sacrifice came in different, gentler forms: a moment spent apart, hands lifting children rather than being held.

Mare did not even envy them when she watched their interactions. She praised them, for the world saw something silly or something cruel when looking in: an ugly man, a lovely bride; a woman of small fortune, a man of great inheritance. Society plucked reasons like roses, ignoring the thorns. But her sister's marriage was like a small boat on rough seas, rumor the waves buffeting its sides and snatching its oars.

They were safe in there, and the water would never know that sentiment.

Mare was in her day dress now, afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows. Up in hers and Matilde's guest bedroom, a desk was beneath them, soaked in daylight. Matilde used it for most of her correspondence, but only in the afternoons and evenings. Matilde was aware Mare worked best in the very early morning and very late night; Mare did not miss the pointed looks or open inkwells and blank sheaves of parchment.

Until today her solitude had not felt complete, however, and as she stood over the desk, she felt called to the paper for its emptiness. Her hand ached for the weight of a quill. Her heart ached for release.

But every time she smelled ink, she thought only of her letters. Gone, now. In the hands of a man who betrayed her.

And suddenly, her heart began to ache in a different way. When the clatter of a cart on the street jolted Mare from her reverie, she was relieved. She left the blank paper and took to the stairs. Words were no longer Mare's responsibility.

Love, she realized, was no longer a possibility. It was a disappointment. Muddled, bloodied, soiled.

Most importantly, gone.

***

For such a small house, dinner was quite an affair with so many sisters gathered round to partake.

It began with chilled cauliflower bisque and dense nutty rolls from a local baker, and moved to baked potatoes and roasted carrots, and then a pheasant pie which left Mare dazed and pleasantly heavy. Last came a custard with fresh strawberries and a slice of lemon, and then sweet plum wine in the parlor, the late dregs of sunlight painting all the family in generous strokes of Renaissance oil.