Star's Crossing

1: The Courting Season Begins

Alison eyed Mare's hem, where brown had seeped above her boot. "Your mother would side with me, Atwood. You'd best clean that up before she spots you. I'll be off, then." She straightened, scanning the quick-crowding thoroughfare. "Much to prepare for. My cousins are among the big names, as you know. We're expecting them tonight for dinner."

Mare nodded, understanding. The Bridges, Watts, and Doores were the wealthiest families in town, and they were all related. Some joked that they only married within their lines to keep them pure, but Star's Crossing knew the truth. They counted themselves a cut above the company, and the greatest irony was that their boys were all destined to marry beneath themselves.

Mare knew both of Alison's Bridge cousins, Theodore and Geoffrey, and one of the Doores, Camden. They'd all been in Mare's primary school class but Geoffrey, who was a year younger. Mare and Geoffrey had spent much of his last summer in Star's Crossing together, storming the woods and casting stones at old Mrs. Bennett's windows. She'd been sad to see him go.

"Now there's a match," Mare's mother would say, stealing a sideways glance or a poke in the ribs. "Geoffrey Bridge, heir of the east coast railway."

Mare wondered what he looked like now. Sounded like. Did he still explore the pines in the first rains, and challenge the surf when it stole up the beach after his bare feet? She touched the note up her sleeve, heart skipping a beat. Did he write love notes by candlelight and promise Mare the world?

"Mare?"

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"You ought to come. Mother would be pleased."

"To...?"

Alison swatted her, laughing. "Dinner, Mare. Tonight. It's to be a grand sort of affair, and mother always welcomes your good humor."

"Because your grand affairs bore her so!" Mare clutched her book close, blanching at the mere thought of the Watt family dining room: massive, laden with heavy oak furniture and velvet cushions, windowless and dim as the belly of a galleon, the very air choked with convention and unspoken things and money. "I've got my fitting this morning, and later-"

"I knew you'd make a dozen excuses. I'm sorry, old friend." Alison placed a consoling hand on Mare's shoulder. "My mother already went to call with yours a week ago."

Heat filled Mare's cheeks. Before she could summon a reply, Alison had already kissed her cheek and pressed on down the lane, leaving behind a ribbon of fine perfume and the clarity of her intentions. Mare stared at the book in her hands. It was nothing more than a bribe.

"At least it's a good one," she muttered. She lifted her chin stoically and tucked the tome beneath one arm. This shift of plans would not derail her. Not today, of all days. Not when tomorrow lie just ahead. Five years had led to this moment. Hundreds of letters, thousands of words--and no names.

I'll wear a red rose in my lapel; you'll wear yours in your hair.

Mare grinned. Until now her life had existed as story only in pages and dreams. But soon, every drama she'd relished and tragedy she'd wept over would fill her days. She'd be a heroine and he would be her hero, nameless, faceless, perfect.

Star's Crossing courtship was old as the city. Between the seventeenth and eighteenth year, the youth would partake of galas and picnics, masquerades and silly games, scavenger hunts in the woods, and lavish dinners at the finest estates.

But Mare would not be taking any of her proposed matches. She'd already chosen her future husband, even if she did not know his name.

The church bell toned nine, sobering Mare to the day's realities. Today was expected, tomorrow was unknowable. She gathered her gown in one hand, held fast to her novel, and breathed deep. A late storm brewed black over the distant horizon and the morning air tasted wild, electric. Unpredictable.

Just the way she liked it.

She headed toward the tailor's shop, but the woods beyond hummed her name, and her feet turned of their own volition toward the wild. Ribbons and gowns could wait. Her heart could not.

The first clap of thunder sounded as she stepped into the trees. She heard yelps of surprise from the lane at her back as townsfolk ducked under awnings and took shelter in shops.

Mare stashed her book beneath her shawl and lifted her face to the quick-darkening sky.

If she had a quill, she'd write the opening chapter: My tale begins with a storm...