Star's Crossing

10: Wine is Thicker than Water

Mare nearly collapsed when she met her parents at the fringe of the ballroom. Her mother looked quite respectable in a modest burgundy gown, and her father looked younger for the black and white. Both offered her a glass of wine, and Mare took both, downing one swift as she could and disposing of the crystal as a member of the waitstaff zipped by.

"Mare Atwood," her mother scolded, chancing a scan of the room to be sure no one had witnessed Mare's blush actions. "You will be positively drunk-"

"Aren't I too cold, mother? A bit of wine will only warm me up." But as she said it, she regretted the quick swallow. Already her stomach churned at the acid of the dark swill, and she remembered with a jolt that she'd had only toast at breakfast and nothing after, as her mother convinced her she'd pop a seam.

"Relax, Harriet," said Mare's father. "It is a night for frivolity-"

"It is a night for skill," snapped Mare's mother, reaching for Mare's glass. "How is she to maneuver her way back to Mr. Bridge if she can't pick his face out of the crowd?"

"I'd find him by his height, of course," said Mare, cocking a brow at her mother and defiantly lifting the glass to her lips. "Besides, this gala is meant to explore my options, not limit them. All of the girls will dance with all of the boys. I've had a turn with Teddy-"

"Teddy, is it?" Mare's mother grinned, teeth gleaming, and drew Mare close, no longer grappling for the wine. "Has he asked you to call him such? Oh, Mare-"

"Mother, he asks everyone to do so. Besides, I'm quite certain he's courting Ms. Gilbert." Mare turned, leaning against the wall to take in the room. Couples danced on the floor, gazing into one another's eyes with all of the hope and romance they could muster. Some of the matches were smart, Mare observed, and would lead to quick courtships and engagements by the following summer. Others were silly, some ridiculous, others intriguing. How had Mare looked, palm to palm with one of Star's Crossing's elite? Had she seemed as absurd as she felt now, imagining the swish of her red gown across his shoes?

"I saw you two at the door," said Mare's mother conspiratorially, linking her arm with Mare's. "Clever of you to run into him. What was your excuse?"

Mare's ears heated. She swirled the wine in her glass. What was her excuse? Heartbreak? Devastation? Betrayal? Humiliation? "Nerves."

"Brilliant! Convince him you're as weak and feeble as that Gilbert waif and he'll feel a hero every time he asks you to dance or offers his arm. That's the Mare I raised." Mare's mother lifted her chin triumphantly. "That's an Atwood girl."

Mare bristled. Yes, she thought, that is an Atwood girl. Nothing like Mare. Nothing like the girl she'd been, penning wistful letters all these years. Not herself, basking in hope for the future and absurd romance, cloaking plunging depths of passion and desire.

Mare had been herself in writing, in imagination, in solitude. Now, she was going to lose all three. Her writer, whoever he was, had abandoned her. No, worse, he'd humiliated her. He'd given roses to every boy to hide his face, and who knew what else? Had he passed the letters in the dorms? Shared them with every bachelor that crossed his path?

And the question remained-when would he reveal Mare's identity?

Had Camden Doores already done so to Theodore Bridge?

"That Gilbert girl," said Mare's mother, clucking her tongue. "I do fail to see what is so grand about her. She looks like a porcelain doll, but with none of a doll's fire. Hm, Elias?"