Chapter 9
When I was fifteen summers old, the palace caught alight with news of Helen’s impending betrothal.
“Kings, princes, heroes from all over Greece are coming here, to grace these halls. Are you not excited?” Callias asked me as we ambled toward the princes’ entertaining quarters.
I yawned, my head hazy. After Castor had indulged in our company the previous night, the prince had fallen asleep, leaving Callias and me to polish off his leftover wine, as we usually did.
I had developed a deep appreciation for Spartan wine and the way it blunted those sharp, ugly edges inside me.
“The arrival of the suitors just means more work for the rest of us,” I grumbled. “More mouths to feed, more spoiled royals to serve, more messes to clean up—”
“More beds to warm.” Callias nudged me with his elbow. “When else will you get the opportunity to lie with a legend?”
I rolled my eyes. “Is that all you think about?”
Callias winked, but his coy act did not fool me as easily as it once had.
I knew he battled his own monsters, ones he occasionally spoke of after one too many cups of wine.
His father had been a gambler, he had told me one night, and when he lost everything, he had been forced to sell the only thing he had left to his name—his children.
Callias did a good job of pretending he did not care, and he played the role of the flirtatious, lighthearted boy well. But I knew armor when I saw it.
“I hear Ajax the Great is one of the potential suitors. Do you think he lives up to that title in all respects?” Callias continued with a performative grin.
“It sounds like he’s overcompensating to me,” I muttered.
He laughed at that, one of his rare, genuine laughs—bright and inviting.
We paused as we neared the doorway to the princes’ entertaining quarters. Sharing a smile, we spat into our wine jugs and clinked them together. This small act of rebellion had become a tradition of ours, one I had grown very fond of.
“Just think of all the wine we can spoil when the suitors arrive tomorrow,” he whispered as we entered the room.
I stifled a laugh, but the amusement died on my lips as soon as I looked up.
As soon as I saw her.
A ghost ripped straight from the shadows of my past.
Penelope.
The world seemed to slow in her presence, the seconds congealing together, sticking to my body, making my movements slow and awkward as I soaked her in…
She had always been slender, but it seemed the rest of her body had finally caught up with those long, elegant limbs of hers.
Her face too had changed, those angular features seeming sharper, cut with an austere edge.
Sunlight spilled across her high cheekbones as she assessed the board game set between her and Polydeuces.
Though her features had altered, her expression remained achingly familiar—that quiet focus that seemed to consume every inch of her.
Callias brushed my arm, and I realized that I had stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking. It was as if my whole existence had been swallowed by Penelope’s presence.
He nudged me again. “Melantho?”
Penelope’s head snapped up, as if her own name had been called.
Her eyes were like twin blades carving through me. I had forgotten how intense her gaze was. It never felt like Penelope was looking at you but rather into you, delving into the very darkest depths of your mind.
It took me a moment to remember I hated her.
She is not my friend.
I ripped my gaze away and forced myself to approach Castor. The prince was lounging across a bench, looking like some beautiful, vain statue brought to life. When he saw me nearing, he cast a slow, appreciative glance over my body.
“We should place bets on which suitor we believe shall be the lucky bastard,” he said, turning back to Polydeuces. “Who do you think, brother?”
“Ajax the Great would be the obvious bet,” Polydeuces said as he mused over his next move. “They are calling him Aristos Achaion.”
“The best of the Greeks.” Castor scoffed at the title. “They say that about everyone.”
“Who do you think then, brother?”
“My bet is on Menestheus,” he said as I refilled his cup. I felt his hand slip beneath my tunic, skating along my bare thighs. “He is king of Athens now after all.”
“Only because we placed him there,” Polydeuces drawled. “Who do you think, cousin?”
“I do not presume to know the plans of King Tyndareus,” Penelope said quietly.
It hurt, hearing her voice. The familiarity of it dragged me back to another time, another life, to a version of myself I did not recognize anymore, one crystallized in bittersweet naivety.
A girl who still believed the world was a gift for her to cherish, not a burden forced upon her shoulders.
A girl who thought “slave” meant “family.” A girl who believed she could be anything she wanted to be, even best friends with a princess.
A girl who still had a mother.
“Oh, come on,” Castor cajoled. “You’re meant to be the smart one in the family. So prove it.”
Penelope gave a resigned sigh. “Whoever he chooses, Tyndareus should make it seem as if it were Helen’s decision. Menelaus of Mycenae is the most obvious candidate, a man who Helen would likely choose and is also a beneficial match for Tyndareus.”
Polydeuces gave a loud snort as he moved his counters across the board.
“And why would Helen get to choose her husband?” Castor scoffed.
Penelope turned to him, her gaze flat. “Your father has invited suitors from all over Greece for the chance to win the hand of ‘the most beautiful woman in the world,’ daughter of Zeus himself, yes? These are kings, princes, famed heroes, men who are used to one thing—victory. But only one can be victorious here. How do you think the rest will take defeat when Helen’s husband is chosen? ”
Castor and Polydeuces shared a look.
“How does this relate to Helen choosing her own husband?” Polydeuces pressed before motioning to the board between them. “It’s your turn.”
“It would be the wisest course of action,” Penelope replied, moving her counters without even looking at where she placed them.
“If Tyndareus chooses a suitor, those not chosen will feel slighted by his rejection. But if Helen chooses or appears to be the one choosing, then Tyndareus can blame infatuation, Eros’s arrow of desire, or any number of innocuous motives that are far harder to raise arms against.”
Her voice was like rainfall—steady and soothing yet with a drumming intensity to it. It was the kind of sound that made you want to close your eyes and tilt back your head, letting it seep into your skin, your bones…
I shivered, pushing the thought away.
“And how do you know Helen would pick Menelaus?” Polydeuces asked.
Penelope looked at him as if the answer were obvious. “Because he is the brother of Clytemnestra’s husband, and you know Helen follows her sister in all things.”
A smile slashed across Castor’s face. “I know what Penelope is getting at. She wants Helen to change the rules so she can choose her own husband too. Is that it, cousin? After all, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To pick through Helen’s leftovers.”
I jolted, my jug nearly slipping from my hands. Across the room, Callias threw me a questioning glance.
“Tyndareus is to arrange my betrothal, as my father has agreed with him,” Penelope said plainly. She moved the counters again, and Polydeuces’s brow furrowed.
“By Zeus, if we start letting women choose their husbands, who will decide next? The slaves?” Castor laughed.
It was an ugly sound. “Good thing we have one right here. Why don’t we ask her?
Go on, girl, tell us what you think.” He motioned to me with his cup, causing the liquid to slosh over the edge and spill onto my sandals.
“Who do you think Penelope here should marry?”
“It would not be my place to say, master.”
Castor rose, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Come now, there must be some thoughts in that pretty head of yours. Share them with us!”
I could feel Penelope’s eyes on me now. Embarrassment prickled beneath my skin, like hot needles piercing every inch of my body.
“Look at my cousin and have a long, hard think. I said look at her.” Castor grabbed my face, forcing it toward Penelope. Her eyes slipped to mine, and they somehow felt both intimately familiar and wholly distant.
Memories gulped inside me, making my pulse quicken.
But I forced myself to push past them and to look, really look, at the princess before me—the clean, perfumed skin, those elegant, expensively dyed robes, her glittering jewelry and beautifully styled hair.
As a child, I had admired these details.
Now, I hated them. I hated everything Penelope was and how it served as a constant, taunting reminder of all I was not and could never be.
“Her heart is galloping,” Castor said, his palm planted over my chest. “You’re making her nervous, cousin.”
Penelope stared at Castor blankly. “If you’re done toying with the slave, may I return to my game? It’s your turn, Polydeuces.”
The slave.
“Oh, don’t be so dismissive.” Castor tutted. “Melantho here is one of my favorites.”
“Your favorite toy changes every season, brother,” Polydeuces sniggered.
“I suppose,” Castor said, letting go of me. “But you have to admit she’s nice to look at.”
Penelope’s eyes flickered to mine again, her expression indecipherable. She held my gaze for the briefest of moments before turning back to Polydeuces.
“I said it’s your turn.”
“Easy now, cousin.” Polydeuces chuckled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “What’s with that tone?”
“She’s probably on her bleeding, brother,” Castor announced from where he had flopped back onto his bench. “Women are always ill-tempered when they bleed.”
Polydeuces nodded in agreement as he began moving his counters. With his free hand, he motioned to his cup.
I obeyed, trying to steady the anger still churning inside me as I bent to pour his wine. Absently, my eyes flicked over the board. It was plain to see Penelope had won the game; one simple move and victory would be hers. But when it was her turn, Penelope retreated.
“Seems you haven’t been practicing enough these past summers,” Polydeuces said as he proudly made the winning move Penelope had opened for him. “I have beaten you at long last.”
“Well done.” Penelope did not even bother reviewing the board as she rose to her feet. “If it pleases you, I wish to retire to my room now. I am not feeling well.”
“Definitely bleeding,” Castor said smugly to his brother. “I told you.”
The princes shared a smirk as Penelope strode toward the door. As I watched her go, a small, foolish part of me waited for her to look back.
She did not.