Star's Crossing

63: Like Stardust

Shortly before Christmas, Geoffrey received a letter he had not been expecting. 

Well, a reply he had not been expecting. His last year at Almagest had been rather an enjoyable one thus far, and he looked forward to the spring and the thaw and the banishment of all this dreaded snow.

It'd been near perfect—all but for the needle of shame that pricked his heart whenever he laughed, or played, and breathed deep on a crisp autumn night. He'd apologized to Mare that day; he'd watched her dance with Teddy at the masquerade, the pair of them blindingly beautiful, a pair so inevitable it was laughable he'd ever shared her lips.

But though Geoffrey had exonerated himself, guilt still poisoned his happy days and stained his jolly dreams. He'd been a true monster. Yes, he'd begun the mission to help Mare; to protect her and her heart and her reputation.

But it'd be a damn lie if Geoffrey said he hadn't enjoyed the chase. He'd certainly enjoyed the flirtation, and most of all he'd enjoyed Mare. She was a brilliant light; sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous. He could have fallen in love with her, and might have given more suitable circumstances. But the truth of them was glaring: Mare would have always been too good for him. Teddy was the only man who might be worthy of her.

And this was what Geoffrey wrote, at last, as autumn turned the world to brass and pollen. It'd been a year since he'd seen Mare last. Indeed he'd followed her exploits, written firsthand by the authoress herself and printed weekly in The Star's Crossing Gazette. Mare was no worse for wear after the cruelty of his, Camden's, and Teddy's game-playing.

But Geoffrey owed her an apology, and more importantly, he owed her an explanation.

Of course, he'd not expected anything in return. It was not for his benefit he apologized, though he looked forward to living his life freely and without that black cloud of his past forever clinging to his heels. It was a pleasure, then to cut open her letter one winter's day. He'd just packed his trunk for holiday at Camden's, and would depart come morning.

Just now dusk turned all the world to pewter and white marble, snow stark against a silvery sky. Geoffrey sat at the desk beneath the window and read Mare's words.

She told of her misadventures in Calgary and London and Paris; she spoke ceaselessly of the wonder of Meredith; she mentioned her novel, which would be distributed in the spring.

And she thanked him, for his honesty, his apology, and the letter itself.

No doubt the words assuage your guilt in equal measure that they soothe my resentment; you are a self-serving young man, and I don't begrudge you that any more than I begrudge myself my habit of remembering. And I do remember—beyond the lies and the anger—I remember the way you kissed me on the cliffside, and now I see why.

Strange to think that your betrayal was, ultimately, in service to my reputation. You thought you were my first kiss; I told you you were.

Funny, isn't it, then, that in fact Teddy was my first kiss, and truly the only one I desired. Like a planet fallen into a star's orbit, despite my greatest efforts I am pulled back to him again and again. I think perhaps I have lost him, at last. I have become myself and forsaken my mask, but truthfully, some days I wonder at the cost.

A thousand miles away, as I molt and rise again, as I shed my past and Star's Crossing like a second skin, I still find him clinging to my skin like stardust. I think of him when I write and wonder; I see him in the streets of Paris, turning corners and beneath streetlamps in the rain. I saw him in the woods of New Brunswick; in the infinite towers of New York City.

He is not my shadow; he is a light. I am myself, now; I found what I was looking for out here.

So why am I called back to the place it all began, Geoffrey, my ally, my confidant? I have glimpsed the world, and now wish to share it.

I have not the courage to write him, nor tell him, nor call on him, nor ask him. Our letters are burned and I have forgotten our language.

But you watched me fall in love with Teddy. I have been both predator and prey; what follows, pray tell?

Geoffrey traced the ink, reading and rereading. It was a wonder he'd not fallen more desperately in love with this woman. It was a wonder Teddy had not thrown himself at Mare Atwood's feet.

Was this how he'd felt, all of those years ago? Receiving that first letter? Writing one back?

Geoffrey's letter would not reach Mare before she returned to Star's Crossing. Indeed, she'd already taken to the road. He resolved to speak to her in person.

As he considered what he might say, he could not help but wonder. As he fell asleep, as he woke and fetched his trunk, as he boarded the coach in the frigid black dawn, as he watched the world awake in shades of grey, as Star's Crossing rose from the mist like Camelot.

Mare did not know what was next for her.

So, how in the world had she ended her book?