Star's Crossing

29: Something Wicked This Way Comes

She felt Alison's eyes boring into the back of her head as she and Camden made for the house. Did Mare's dear friend suspect something had transpired between her and Teddy? Between her and Geoffrey?

Did she suspect there was a game afoot still, though Alison's mother had revealed herself to be the submitter of the letters?
Mare certainly did. The sharp, cruel words of Camden's father returned to Mare, and she thought, for her sake and everyone else's, she would not surrender this game so quickly. She'd already written herself into this court, among the players. She supposed she'd be no queen after all, and perhaps no girl and no wolf.

But she would certainly be no one's fool.

***

Once washed up and changed, Mare made her way downstairs. Alison had selected a dress of cream and lace, and a maid had braided Mare's hair halfway, allowing the rest to fall in dark, untamed curls. She was unselfconscious of them for once, instead surprised at the sharp-eyed girl who met her gaze when she passed a looking glass in the hall.

Mare was directed toward the parlor, but discovered it empty. She thought she ought to remain until someone appeared, but the thought of being stranded alone in the room with Lilith or Theodore or Geoffrey or even Alison sent fear burning through her bones. She peeked around the hall corner and, finding it empty, made her way toward Mrs. Watt's plant room. It was there she'd sat at Mrs. Watt's knee with Alison over the years, neck craned toward the woman like flower to sunlight, as she spun stories of her youth is Essex and her travels around Europe and even North Africa.

Mare hadn't visited the room since before the summer, and as she made her way down the hall, she was consumed with a powerful desperation to return to those simple, wistful times.

But she heard a scuffle and a curse as she passed an open door, and curiosity, as it was wont to do, got the better of her. Mare scrupulously retreated, skirts gathered, and leaned over to peer through the ajar door.

Inside Camden attended the liquor cabinet. It was some kind of guest room, Mare remembered, and realized the Bridges and Doores must have used it frequently in their upbringing. Camden, Mare observed, face flushing, felt ostensibly quite at home there.

He still wore his sporty, mud and grass-stained clothes, and sweat still stuck up his hair at wild angles. His alabaster complexion remained rosy, and a scuff on his jaw had been bleeding, clearly swiped away by an impatient hand. All was in place as it had been, but for his shirt, which was removed and cast over the back of a wicker chair in one corner.

Mare pressed her fingers to her lips, meaning to recoil and flee and of course, deny anything at all had happened. But though her blood flowed like fire, searing her bones, igniting her heart, Mare found she could not look away. Her eyes lingered on the taut, wiry muscles of his shoulders, the contours of his ribs, the smooth line of his abdomen, and the alien precipice of his hips.

Seemingly unaware she watched, Camden unscrewed the cap on a crystal bottle of dark whiskey, liquid lapping amber in the winking sunlight, and tipped it to his lips. Mare watched, rapt, as he down several long draughts, a rivulet snaking down his Adam's apple. When done he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward, bracing himself against the liquor cabinet.

For a moment, in that hot golden light, back curled inward and a shadow across his face, he looked old. Empty. His black eyes and raven hair washed out his porcelain skin, and the bruises blossoming against his ribs looked permanent and damning, like blooming rot in the bud of roses.

Then he straightened and his eyes slid toward the door, and a rakish smile stirred his lips.

Mare needed no signal, and he didn't offer one. She was too proud to scamper off like a mouse in the kitchen, and too embarrassed to feign confidence. Instead she sheepishly stood upright, dusted her dress, and slipped through the door.

Her cheeks were ablaze, but she thought if she held composed enough an expression, Camden would not notice. Still, a distraction was welcome. She lifted the whiskey bottle, surprised by its heft, and pretended to read the label.

But Camden had not shifted, and stood his ground temptingly. He was close enough Mare could smell his sweat and the pepper of whiskey on his breath, and the metal of earth and blood on his clothes, his skin. She thought she imagined him gravitating nearer, but when she turned to speak to him, he'd moved behind her.

Mare fumbled for words, nearly dropping the bottle in surprise when Camden leaned forward, replacing his hands on the liquor cabinet on either side of her.

"Atwood," he said softly, and Mare was surprised at how cold and sober his words were, how lucid and determined his eyes shone in the shadows. He was limned in sunlight and looked heavenly, a wounded and beautiful saint rectified in stained glass and desperate prayers.

Mare nearly leaned in. She forgot the other boys, their names, their faces, and fell cruelly in love with Camden in that moment. He was so beautiful, and he'd read her words and written his own, and his father and his money hardly mattered. Nothing mattered. There was nothing between them now but stale summer air and the memory of whiskey.

He placed his fingers around hers on the neck of the bottle. "Drink."

I couldn't! The words rose to her lips, but she forced them back. She could not hope to dash society's dreams for her if she obeyed its every order, could she? Mare slowly uncapped the bottle, Camden's hands returning to either side of her. While he watched she lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. It seared her tongue, the taste mineral-rich, pepper and age and sea salt. It settled in her belly and burned and she thought of Macbeth and the three witches, their strange poisonous brew: double, double, toil and trouble.

"Court me," Camden whispered.

Mare felt her eyes widen, lips part. Yes, she thought desperately, yes, at last. Before she could speak, there was a rap at the door, and Alison leaned her head in.

Her face reddened quickly and she withdrew just as fast, calling, shakily, from the corridor. "Meet us in the parlor, love birds."

"Best get dressed," said Camden. He pulled from Mare, leaving her wrapped around the bottle, head spinning, heart unmoored. "Meet you there, Red."

While his back was turned Mare downed another long sip, then fled the room before she saw any more of Camden Doores.

Something wicked this way comes.