Star's Crossing

2. Girls in Storms Should Not Be Trusted

Still. Even Mare was displeased he held his bow so long. "Come, Mr. Bridge. Please."

He straightened, smile losing its sincerity. He examined her openly, thick brows low over oak-brown eyes, gaze snagging on her bare fingers, dripping hair, and stained skirts. "Ms. Atwood, I'd hate to accuse the lady of predictability..."

Mare's cheeks warmed and she straightened, loathing him for every trespass he'd committed in mere moments: intruding on her solace, destroying her letter, and presuming to know her by rumor and family alone.

"And what have I done to accrue such tally against my character?" She was careful to moderate her voice, achieving the cool aloofness her mother so despised.

"Well, Ms. Atwood." Theodore eyed the rain beyond their shelter and shifted so his back was against the tree, close enough Mare took a surreptitious step away. "It is said you are quite unpredictable."

Mare felt her face go slack, and Theodore did not fail to notice, gaze slipping sideways. "My unpredictability has made my actions predictable?" She fought the alarming urge to smile, maintaining the mild, hooded-eyed scowl that frightened boys like Theodore Bridge away. "Here I was counseled to fear judgment based on silly things, such as sociability and strength of moral character."

Theodore lifted the hat from his head and shook the water loose before replacing it. "I've also heard your tongue is a thing quick on its own."

Mare flushed, instantly livid this fool boy could return to town after five long years and infuriate her without even a day's practice. Were she at a picnic or gala or even on the street, she'd smile warmly and offer some platitude or apology. It'd do no good to stand out from the crowd, particularly in tiny Star's Crossing. At the first hint of rebellion or mere distinguishability, Mare's mother would lock her away and cast the key into the sea.

But Mare was alone, with a man who'd inserted his opinion unwarranted and undesired. And perhaps the storm had made her a bit reckless, and perhaps she was angrier than she'd thought that her note was gone, her lover's words swallowed by the earth and damned, irrevocably, to the void.

She faced Theodore, chin raised in challenge. "A woman's greatest shame."

He looked to her in surprise, any hint of comedy or pleasure struck from his face. "You mistake me-"

"I understand you quite clearly, Mr. Bridge. You will have to forgive my impertinence." She inclined her head, gathered her skirts in one hand, and struck out from the tree's embrace.

"Ms. Atwood!"

Mare stomped-or achieved her best approximation of stomping, mud sucking her boot heels with every step-toward the footpath. She'd sought only a moment of solace before the day began, a moment with her words and her mind before she'd be forced to slip them both back up her sleeve and paint a smile on her face. She'd sought a pause before the incessant hustle of the courting season began.

Reality snapped back into place as she trudged through muck and rain rivers embedded in the brush. Theodore's overshadowing presence reminded her of everything that might go wrong when she discovered her correspondent's identity. He could be poor, penniless, an unsuitable match. He could be rich beyond measure, and cruel for it. He could be silly or serious. He could be mean. He could be cold. Arrogant.

He could be utterly perfect, and find her lacking.

"Ms. Atwood, please! Come out of the rain, you'll ruin your dress!"