Star's Crossing

11: The Chase Begins

The evening was not over yet. The ink of night would not dare lighten until Mare had answers.

Well. One answer.

Geoffrey caught her hand before she could reenter the great hall, and she turned in question.

"Before you go," he said, "might I strengthen your chances of achieving an answer?"

Mare blinked at him. They'd shared no more words on the pavilion, but should they have? There was brightness in Geoffrey's eyes that sent off alarm bells in Mare's head.

He knows something.

Mare bit her lip, then nodded. She regretted her action instantly, as Geoffrey carefully removed the red rose from his lapel and lifted it to Mare's crown of curls. She caught his sleeve, heart halting in her chest.

"Ms. Atwood." Geoffrey flashed that impish grin, and Mare raged against her instincts to laugh or return his amusement. Her guard lowered reflexively, foolishly, in his shadow. It ought to have strengthened. "Do you trust me, Mare?"

Mare dropped her hand slowly. The truth was that she trusted no one after this night, not even herself. Especially not herself. But she needed allies now more than ever, and as one of Star's Crossing's young elite, Geoffrey carried more advantage to the table than nearly anyone else within the dance hall.

Mare had to be cleverer than her enemy, than her writer. She had to keep her wits above her heart, instinct above inclination. She had to be the girl she pretended to be, rather than the one she was. Sharp. Cold. Calculating.

Mare had to be an Atwood.

She lowered her gaze and nodded, attempting the demure, doll-like nonchalance Lilith Gilbert had perfected.

Geoffrey seemed appeased. He lifted a curl from Mare's cheek and slipped the rose behind her ear, careful, it seemed, not to linger this time.

"I'm unsure what we're looking to achieve, Ms. Atwood. But I suspect it has to do with the night's...flora. On that subject, I will do you one more service this evening. The rest is up to you." Geoffrey bowed and opened the door, politely gesturing Mare in. She allowed him to guide her into the din and gleam of the party, his hand at the small of her back. "Mare."

The warmth of her wine still lingered, a pleasant fog at the back of her mind, a weight in her eyelids, but her goals were now sharp and bright as a blade. "Yes, Mr. Bridge?"

"May I tell you a secret?"

Mare froze. She stared, but Geoffrey's gaze did not return to hers, instead scanning the revel. When she spoke, her voice was meek. "Yes?"

"That sweeping romance you seek? That storybook epic you suspect does not exist in this harsh reality?"

Mare threaded her fingers together to disguise their trembling. She nodded once, prompting.

"I believe it does exist. So long as you are willing to seek it out." Now he turned back to her. "Promise, Mare Atwood. The sweetest moments of the hunt lie in the chase. Do not surrender to elusive prey; often it is the most satisfying catch."

Mare was reminded of his words earlier in the night, notched arrows pointed toward her heart. On the balcony he said he'd never heard her speak in such a way; now she was astounded by the lilt of his words, the way poetry fell from his tongue. Effortless. Natural.