Star's Crossing

43: This is Surrender

He sat in the estate and gazed at the world beyond the window as the sun insisted on rising.

His heart was somewhere back at Almagest, at his ink-stained desk with his father's silver pocket watch, on the rugby field with a view of the same sea that touched the shores of Star's Crossing. His heart was left passing the postman and loitering at the front gates, awaiting word, from her. His heart was beneath that snow-laden bough. It was in her letters.

It was in her hands.

How had it all gotten away from him? As a boy the future seemed inevitable: him. Her. Together. They would write stories and travel the world. Where had the fork in the road appeared? When had he embarked upon the wrong path?

When had he pasted on a mask and begun reading lines? He was no hero at all. No man of passion, no man of the world. He was a coward, and a selfish man. He did not deserve the fire and wit and madness that was Mare Atwood. He did not deserve the world, though it was constantly placed at his feet.

She did. She was the brave one, not he. She was the writer, the adventurer, the conjurer of tales and hero of legends.

And he was hopelessly in love with her, now as he was as a boy. As he'd been most of his life. And somewhere along this road, he had made a foolish decision. The worst, he feared, of his life.

Somewhere along this road, he had turned his back on her.

***

Mare tried to breathe. She held her hand to the door. Worried her bottom lip. Her heart raced, and though she'd worn her best lace gloves and had Jenelle do her hair properly, she felt like a pauper at the palace of a king.

Please. They are not kings. They are boys who are told they deserve all the world.

She nearly laughed. What was the difference, really?

Before she could knock, the door swung open, and a servant appraised Mare with a friendly smile. "Miss Atwood, do come in. It is not entirely proper to loiter on the drive."

Mare gawped. "I—my apologies, of course."

"You asked once what was proper," informed the servant with a knowing smile. He gestured her inside. "The boys are just in the parlor. I do assume that is why you have come to call?"

Mare hesitated, stepping into the beautiful foyer: black and white tile, a regal white marble staircase with filigree banisters, the walls lined with grand portraits of forefathers, poised with muskets and kills. No blood on their boots.

Mare's resolve hardened. "I am."

"Allow me to take you back directly—"

"No." Mare removed her gloves and allowed the servant to take them and her shawl. She smiled. "I should like to surprise them, as it were."

"Ah." The servant inclined his head, flashing a smile. "A game. The youth are always so eager for play."

"Today I'm afraid I am eager for blood," Mare admitted, but if the servant heard the carnage in her voice, he gave no notice. He merely laughed and indicated the way, and left Mare to her devices.

Mare could not recall if she had been to the Bridge estate. After so many years of tea and calls and dinners, the opulence began to blur and stale. Mahogany and scarlet, whiskey and cigars, first edition books and a room with game stuffed and pinned over doorways. The musk of male clung to every doorway and filled every hall, though the men of the house were so rarely in attendance. They were out strolling the whole of the world, roads rising up to meet them and winds filling their sails, yet they were not content if there was room left anywhere for anyone else.