Maybe I’ll be a martyr.
The thought came in a flash like so many similar thoughts had, but instead of flitting away, it persisted. Throughout her seventeen years, Mary Credence had always known she was destined for something great. It wasn’t a drive or an urgent will to do something monumental and substantial that she harbored, just a peaceful confidence that she would. Whether it was becoming the first female President of the United States, doing missionary work like Mother Teresa, or consecrating herself to God, she always had some different vision of greatness for herself. But at the most unlikely of times—as she was heading back to her parents’ Easter ball with her sister, for example—greatness appeared to her as martyrdom.
Mary subconsciously brought her fingers to the dime-sized sterling silver medal that hung on a dainty chain around her neck. The medal contained the impression of a young woman carrying a sword complemented by the words “Saint Joan of Arc Pray for Us” encircling the small likeness.
Saint Joan of Arc was great, Mary thought, and she was only a few years older when she was martyred. To Mary, being martyred—burned at the stake—for your beliefs was the most profound form of devotion and certainly a path to greatness.
Mary’s far-off look of lofty yearning annoyed her sister. “Oh, my god,” Hannah complained in a nasally tone. “Are you, like, daydreaming of going to church or something?”
Mary shook herself out of her reverie and turned to her sister. “What? No.” Of course, she couldn’t just tell her sister what she was thinking, there in the upstairs hallway with hundreds of friends and socialites a floor below them. Aspirations of martyrdom weren’t the type of things Hannah would have understood. No doubt she would have thought her little sister was losing her ever-loving mind.
Hannah stared at her sister as the two walked slowly through the upstairs hall toward the home’s back staircase. Mary was perfectly composed without a single wave of golden hair misplaced or a visible imperfection on her fair skin. She wore no makeup aside from a swipe of mascara and a light rose lip balm, but her face glowed with a natural radiance that was impossible to ignore. She had always been fashionable, helped by a never-ending wardrobe provided by her father, and that night was no exception. Sheer scalloped lace trimmings around her neckline held up her stunning yellow Empire-waist dress, which would have looked immodest on a more voluptuous woman but which was fitting on Mary’s slender figure.
“So, like, can you maybe grow a zit every once in awhile for these parties?” Hannah sneered.
Mary tried to decipher the compliment but couldn’t.
“I mean, you’re never going to hook up with any of these guys, so you should, like, grow zits so none of them fall into your little trap.” Hannah laughed off the comment so as to not sound too antagonistic.
“What are you talking about?”.
“Right, you don’t tease boys, I forgot,” Hannah snapped.
“I don’t tease!” Mary shot back.
“Yeah, right, tell that to what’s his face.”
“Who?”
“Your little boyfriend, Ethan.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Mary contested.
“Did he know that when y’all went to the spring dance together?”
“Yes. I made it perfectly clear that we were just going as friends.”
“Sure, whatever,” Hannah said with a shrug.
Hannah exhaled audibly through her nose and looked down as the two stopped at the top of the stairs, which curved down to the kitchen. Hannah and Mary’s parents’ parties usually consisted of clients and other important people, but that year’s celebration included an influx of dignitaries and donors involved with their father’s United States senatorial campaign. Those guests stayed in the front of the house and the great room. However, most of the young people and the sisters’ friends congregated in the kitchen. Sounds of cheering guests, clinking glasses, and boisterous laughing floated up from the party, filling the air under the vaulted ceilings.
