Star's Crossing

50: Leave to Fall or Fly

By night the gardens behind Medley's estate smelled of midsummer night dreams and star jasmine. An attendant looped the grand labyrinthine hedges lighting standing lamps, and Mare could hear her sister playing the piano for Matilde in the parlor.

She carried her skirts in one hand and the wrapped parcel from Philadelphia in the other. By the time she discovered an alcove in the vast gardens, her feet were sore and her head at last clear of the fog of a delicious meal and one too many glasses of sherry. She sat, kicked of her shoes, and smoothed her hands over the parcel.

Wrapped in paper and secured with a bristly thread of jute, it was the size and weight of a book. Mare had prolonged opening the gift, aware she'd reach a moment wherein she was in direr need. It felt that moment was now; she did not suffer, but her heart felt unmoored, influenced by any northern wind or a star burning bright. She needed the grounding needle of a compass.

Mare expected Austen, perhaps Brontë or an edition of Shakespeare she did not yet own, or had met its fiery end in the parlor hearth at home. Inside lie something Mare could not have expected.

She laughed softly, breath stolen by the promise of fall and magic in the air. She brushed aside the thread and paper, caressed the simple red cloth cover, a title embossed in black ink.

Star's Crossing: A Young Woman's Adventures in Love.

Tears rose to Mare's eyes. She touched her fingers to her lips and laughed again, bliss and surprise coursing through her like wine. It was beautiful. Perfect. She felt the weight of her own words in her hands, and was less burdened than when her fingers were empty. It was Mare: apart, real, and true.

With a trembling sigh Mare opened the cover—inside rested a hand-written note on a card of Mollie's personal parchment. An impression of what's to come. Finish the book. Give it wings of ink and push it from the nest. Give yourself leave to fall or fly, sister. We shall be here to catch or watch you either way.

Mare traced the words, then tucked the card into her dress pocket and gazed down at the first page. There was the title, printed again. Beneath it was a stamp of a girl in the rain. Mare closed her eyes, tempering her tears.

When she opened them again, she could barely see her own name, printed beneath the title for all the world to see. She thought her heart might cease beating for the inferno of joy struck there.

Written by Mare Atwood.

***

Mare and Matilde arrived home in Star's Crossing before dawn, and expected none to be arisen but the maids. There was a surprise drinking coffee over the day's paper at the kitchen table.

Mare squealed, unable to contain her delight, hurling herself into her father's arms before he could greet his girls. He caught Mare with a laugh, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and drawing her close. He smelled of pine and morning cold, and Mare was a bit downcast at finding his face pale and his eyes tired.

"My girls," he said, holding Mare at arm's length and leaning to kiss Matilde's cheek. "Back from their adventures."

"Mare wishes they'd have lasted forever," said Matilde. As always, despite the hour and the travel, Mare's sister was impeccably dressed, curls spilling from beneath a very modern suede hat. She leaned past Mare and their father and shook out the paper. "Ah. The mystery continues, I see."

Mare's father smiled. "A mystery for some."

Matilde laughed softly, gesturing to Jenelle for a cup of coffee. She winked at Mare. "I'll just take it in the parlor. Excuse me." Their father's stolen paper successfully pilfered and tucked under one arm, Matilde excused herself.

"Father," Mare began, heart racing. "About the letters, The Gazette—"

"Mare, dear. Please. Sit."

Mare hesitated, then sat stiffly beside her father. He smiled, taking her hands across the table. "I've embarrassed you," Mare said gently.

"Sweet girl." Mare's father squeezed her hands, and the tiredness seemed to vanish from his face, gone sure as the night with dawn dogged on the heels of the dark. "You have made me very proud."

Mare pressed her lips together, loathing her weakness as tears threatened. "Father." Her voice broke. "I am afraid my reputation shall not ever recover—"

"Oh, what is a reputation? Hm?" He reached and tipped her chin, holding her eyes seriously. "You are different, Mare. You have the courage to stand out."

"Courage! I have been a coward, father." Mare squeezed his hands back, unblinking. "I have betrayed my friends. Lied to you and mother. I have...crippled my honor." Now Mare's tears rose, blurring her father before her. "I have chosen a life I know could never truly be mine. I bring you and mother dishonor. I flout my circumstances, my chances—"

"You are young, and in love, Mare. Do not we all make mistakes when we are young and in love?" Mare's father's voice fell. He sighed. "I did not provide you with the opportunities I ought to have. Your mother chose me, and I failed her. Your sisters, I failed. We have heaped undue trial and responsibility upon your shoulders. We have robbed you of the opportunity for love, for romance. For passion."

Mare bit her lip, heart plummeting. "Father..."

"You deserve all the world, Mare. Like your mother and your sisters you are scrappy; adaptable. But all of you deserve more than survival. You deserve to live."

Mare's father reached across the table and swiped away her tears. "I did not put you first," Mare said, the softest of sobs feathering from her lips. "I was selfish."

"Redeem yourself, daughter of mine." Her father's smile was rueful and true. "Write. For the world, for your family. For young women like yourself who cannot walk the familiar roads or speak the given lies. We shall find a way."

Mare stood and threw her arms around her father's shoulders. "Why should I be given a chance no one else has been?"

"Life is not fair," he said softly into her hair. "But you have been given this chance, this family, this hunger, these talents. Do not waste them."

Mare clutched him tighter. She felt as though her heart were splitting in two, her bones buckling. She was cleaved; half of her was ablaze with relief, gratitude. The other desperately entrenched in doubt. With this faith came pressure.

But would Mare rather a life of meaningless puppetry? A lack of love? A life, a lie?

Mare pulled back, her hands on her father's shoulders. She smiled at him, loved every line in his face, the gray in his hair, the sacrifices he had made for his family. For her. Then she turned and pulled the book from her luggage.

"May I show you something?" She asked. At his smile, Mare place the book on the table. "It isn't finished."

Mare's father traced the cover, his expression soft and dazed. It was how he looked at The Iliad, but it was Mare's name he read. "Well," he said, "you had best get to work."