Starr

They say the stars are as numerous as grains of sand on the coast of the Bahamas, that more reside in the heavens than there are, and ever have been, babies born on earth. This was a fact that had not escaped the notice of the very pregnant woman gazing up to the ample moon, one hand guarding, with the fierce gentleness only pregnant women possess, her bulging stomach.

It was this thought, accompanied by the recognition of the uniqueness of her situation, that Romania solidified the name she had already chosen with a professed reluctance. It was true that the woman with the silky flowing brown hair, the pensive brow line, the sensual mouth, had extravagant plans for her child whom she knew without hesitation would of course be a girl.

And so her name became Starr. The beauty of this baby would, once she was born, never be disputed. With the flawless union of the mother's traditionally perfect face which, as the general consensus went, had clearly been borne of nobility somewhere along the line, and the father's penetrating purple eyes, how could this child not be heaven personified?

So it was with this quiet conviction, a head held high with a pride that threatened a hint of snobbery, that the very pregnant woman with no ring on her finger returned to the grey apartment with the hole in the wall. She returned, with a grace and doting stride that glanced upon the world with an air of decided condescension only a woman as flawless as she could possess. She returned in the midnight hour to plot the restoration of her power.