Star's Crossing

3: Books Make Fine Hostages (And Better Bribes)

"You'll be lucky if the Watts let you in the door." Mare's mother fussed over Mare's hair, her lips pursed so tightly they seemed to vanish altogether.

Mare narrowed her eyes at her reflection in the tarnished looking glass. "You think they answer their own door?"

Mare's mother straightened, glaring down her small, downturned nose in disapproval. "I'd recommend watching your tongue this evening, but I know that to be an impossible feat for you, Mare." Her mother bent, pinching Mare's cheeks with far more force and relish than necessary. She stood and planted her hands on her hips. "So I'll simply recommend you keep your mouth closed."

"How shall I eat?"

Mare's mother gave her a long, withering smile. She seemed to like Mare best when she was short or bitter or mean. It must have reminded her of herself. "Perhaps you shouldn't."

"They'd think me quite rude," Mare mused, standing and leaning toward the mirror. Her mother had insisted on daubing pale pink paint over her lips, and a smear marred her cheek. She dabbed it with her pinkie, imagining the horror of eating around the silly cosmetics. Perhaps she should heed her mother's advice; her stomach would be in knots the whole night anyway.

"Have you any idea who will be in attendance apart from Alison's family?"

Mare shook her head and smoothed her dress. She looked absurd in anything finer than cotton and plain color; pink in particular did cruel things for her complexion, though she was less concerned with vanity than standing out. Even in one of her two finest gowns, she had no interest in drawing the attention of any boys beyond her nameless, faceless suitor. In fact, though she'd never say so aloud, it was her daily objective to appear as normal and non-noteworthy as possible.

If Mare blended with the crowds, she'd be left alone. To hide within her mind and letters, her words, her dreams. If she played her part for her mother and town, she was uniquely free to be herself. The reputation she'd once loathed beyond measure had strangely become a perfect deterrent for undesired attention.

"It's unfortunate you did not inherit your father's looks, like your sisters." Mare's mother turned Mare toward her, helping her into pale kid gloves that rested at the crooks of her elbows. "God knows I faced my own share of adversity due to my homeliness. Thank God I was rich, I suppose, though I'd hoped none of my girls would experience my suffering."

Mare furrowed her brow. Her mother was often scathing about Mare's too-dark hair and thick brows, her large, flat nose, her pinched lips, and long neck. She was not terribly ugly, she knew, but beside her sisters she was a pauper to princesses.

Still, her mother had never discussed her own looks. Not to Mare, anyway. "Mother," she said cautiously, "you're not homely."

Her mother shot her a glare. "Do not patronize me, child. I'm only reminding you to compensate for your shortcomings."

Mare cocked a brow and stepped into the pink shawl her mother lifted from the dresser. "I always do, mother."

"The neck that sticks out is cut." Mare's mother smoothed the shawl, tucked a loose curl behind Mare's ear, and held her eyes. "I've arranged this dinner so you might have an edge at the gala tomorrow, yes? Mrs. Watt and I believe one of those boys might make a fine fit, and I know how you've had your eye on Geoffrey."

"Mother!" Mare's cheeks flared, and she snatched her small, beaded purse from the vanity. "Geoffrey is too young." But as she spoke the words she realized, heart halting in her chest, that though Geoffrey was young, he was a viable option. He couldn't be her writer. Not possibly-Mare had sent her letter a year ahead of him.