Star's Crossing

53: He Who Has Forsook His Throne

The pen was in his hands, as it had been so many years ago.

He need only send the letter back.

He need only see her in the snowy bough and his father's silver pocket watch. He need only hear her in the bereaved moan of the cello, or the first hard percussion of thunder.

But Theodore Bridge knew a good many more things about his writer now than he had five years ago.

She was not his, for one; and for two, her name was Mare Atwood.

As once he'd thought, she was an unsuitable match. Her words indeed were luscious and decadent. She wrote pages upon pages, but now, many of her ellipses were simply periods. Her thoughts were rarely left unfinished. And she was a woman of conviction, not reconsidered notions.

She had indeed awoken something in Teddy that would never return to slumber. She told secrets and kept them; he told secrets and gave them away.

Mare Atwood believed in love, after everything.

She wanted to know: Did he?

The piece in The Gazette this week was not one of the letters Geoffrey had returned to him before he was sent back to Almagest as fall cleaved over Star's Crossing. No, this letter was penned by the same author as the others, but it was not a message Teddy had ever received.

Still, in not so many words, it was addressed to him.

Dear likeminded ally,

Fare 'well to thee thine masque

As I farewell'd mine own

Look upon as Narcissus to pond

Now thou's forsook his throne

A Hopeful Friend

He was disbelieving of it at first, and indeed thought it a prank. Mare Atwood would never be his. Indeed, it was true his family was now destitute. He no longer had a bride. What possibility threatened the happiness of two lovers?

The loss of the money was what sobered Teddy. He'd proclaimed to Mare that to live poor was to die. Death of pride, death of ego, death of opportunity.

But Theodore Bridge was finally free.

That did not mean he could marry Mare. No matter how he wished to, now that he could. No matter how he loved her. He had never truly suspected Mare a fortune hunter, and with her letter to The Gazette, his opinion was affirmed. Mare had loved him before she knew of his fortune, and now she loved him after it. Certainly the public opinion would be dispelled, and Teddy would give Mare that in a heartbeat.

But Mare's good heart and Teddy's love would not pay for their lives.

Teddy had only one hope of what would, and it did not sit on the other side of this door. Still he knocked.

Nathaniel Bridge did not answer, nor did Orson Watt, nor did Alaster Doores. Teddy pushed in anyway.

"What do you mean by this, boy?" Orson Watt puffed on his cigar, eyes cold and distant. All three men sat in the parlor, fists curled and brows drawn low. It was clear none had slept much the last few days, but it was past noon and the whiskey had not been drunk, so Teddy seized his chance.

These terrible men had no means, no money, and still they plotted. All day they drank and plotted. Teddy was glad his, Camden's, and Alison's mothers had sent to England for reprieve. It was best they did not watch their gentlemen fall to simpering pieces as they burned away their wives' fortunes.

"Theodore," said Teddy's father, motioning sharply. He stood over a ledger and drank tea, sober for perhaps the first time in days. Teddy had been patient. He saw his opportunity and took it. "Come in, yes, come in. Solve a business question for us, won't you?"

"As a matter of fact," Teddy said, folding his hands behind his back. "I will not."

All three men went unceremoniously still. Were it not for the twin curls of cigar smoke and steam off his father's tea, it would seem time itself had halted.

"I beg your pardon, boy?"

"Your business," Teddy said, his voice soft and steady though his mind was anything but, "is your own. I am of no part."

Nathaniel Bridge stood rigid, his expression plainly failing to understand. "You are my son. My business is yours. My investments, my failures—"

"No. That is where you're wrong."

"What nonsense is this?" Barked Orson.

Teddy did not so much as spare him a glance. He held his father's eyes. "I was bound to you," he said, hands clasped firmly behind his back, chin lifted in defiance. "I was your blood and heir. I was your future. But our future is gone, sir. We are left with nothing. You are left with nothing."

"Nothing," scoffed Nathaniel, his gaze dangerous, "but a fool son possessed by feminine notions."

His father had not failed to notice Teddy's love of art and literature. Good. Teddy was disinterested in hiding it any longer. In fact, Teddy was not to hide a thing after this. Here was where he truly removed his mask.

"You do not even have that," Teddy said, with a smile. "I have taken a position in Philadelphia, working for the paper. I've arranged housing, transport, none of which shall be on your dime. Consider this my resignation from every and any of the Bridge exploits."

Nathaniel's eyes were bright as flames. He stood utterly still, and one might have thought him a statue should they not notice the way his tea trembled in its cup. "You are disowning your own blood."

"Not mother. Not Geoffrey. Not Camden or Alison. Only you." Teddy forced himself to turn though fear pounded through his blood like an icy tide. He met Orson and Alaster's eyes in turn, both sets filled with venom and loathing. "And my uncles, of course. I am freed of my debts to you. You have ruined yourselves, and I have fallen with you. Let us rise separately, should we rise at all."

Nathaniel did not move. Teddy sensed in the air how badly his father wished to strike his son. Nathaniel Bridge's hatred was like its own electric current; no longer would Teddy be forced to endure its shock.

Never again.

"I leave tomorrow," Teddy said at last. "I hope we part as friends."

"You leave now," said Nathaniel softly. He placed his teacup on the table. The movement seemed gentle, but a fissure bit through the porcelain, and black droplets began to gather on the mahogany. "And you do not show your vile face in or near my home ever again."

Nathaniel turned his back, and Teddy had never been gladder to see someone poised to walk away. "I will not succeed in spite of you," said Teddy, surprised when the slightest of smiles crept over his face. "I will forget you, and never again shall you poison me."

Teddy turned and left the parlor for perhaps the last time. He was not grieving the loss; he would always have his mother and brother, his cousins, his aunts. This was the removal of a dying limb, and though he would live without it, he would live better. Happier. Stronger.

Besides, there was no time for grief.

He had a ball to attend.