Chapter 27
The next morning, I did not leave my bed.
Hippodamia and Autonoe let me be as I hid under the covers, quietly festering beneath the weight of my brother’s words. They played over and over in my mind, like the mighty ouroboros forever eating its own tail, my thoughts turning in an endless, devouring circle.
You only care for yourself.
You hate your own kind.
You are nothing.
It was as if a sinking void had opened beneath me, my body too drained and lifeless to claw its way out.
Eventually, hunger forced me to drag myself from bed and trudge into the central room of Penelope’s quarters.
“Melantho.” Her voice greeted me as soon as I entered, though she sounded strange, her voice clipped and formal. “I understand you were not feeling well and that is why you rose late. You are excused for this.”
Excused?
Penelope met my frown with a pointed look, and I followed her gaze to where the king of Ithaca stood on her balcony, cradling Telemachus in his arms.
“Thank you…mistress,” I said, the title tasting bitter on my tongue.
Penelope gave an apologetic smile. I knew she felt uneasy around Laertes, as many of us did.
The king was a peculiar man. Hippodamia said the death of his wife had completely unraveled him, and the departure of his only son seemed to have done further damage.
These days, Laertes stalked through the palace like a restless, angry spirit.
When he wasn’t ranting wildly at the slaves, he was shouting doomed proclamations to whoever might listen.
All is lost. The gods have cursed me. I will never again know my son’s smile.
I glanced around the room, looking for Hippodamia and Autonoe, but they were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they had wanted to avoid the unpleasantness of Laertes’s company.
“I think he has my eyes,” Laertes said as he wandered in from the balcony.
I stifled a scoff. Telemachus quite clearly had Penelope’s gray eyes. But of course, men only wished to see their own selves reflected in the world.
“Let me see,” Penelope said, placing a hand on Laertes’s shoulder to peer at her son. “Ah yes, so he does. The gods have certainly blessed him.”
Laertes’s mood instantly darkened at her words.
“Blessed? Telemachus is not blessed. The gods have cursed him to never know his father.”
Penelope squeezed his shoulder. “I have faith the gods will return Odysseus to us. I pray for it every day.”
The king patted her hand with a condescending smile. “You are sweet, my dear, but you are ever so naive.” He then turned to bark, “Slave.”
He held Telemachus out to me, but Penelope intercepted, taking her son in her arms. Her smile remained perfectly in place, though it seemed tighter around her lips.
“He needs bathing. Give him to the slave,” the king ordered.
“I can do it,” Penelope said.
Laertes watched her with a disapproving frown. “That is not your duty, Penelope. Remember our discussion.” The king stared pointedly across the room.
I followed his gaze to where a large leather pouch sat on the far table.
“I hope you will think on my offer.”
Penelope nodded. “Of course, my king.”
With that, the king of Ithaca shuffled from the room, shoulders stooped as if he held the weight of the world upon them.
Once he was gone, I turned to where Penelope was setting Telemachus down in his cot.
“It’s nice to see Laertes is his usual, optimistic self today, is it not?” she said dryly. “How was Melanthius yesterday? You disappeared afterward, so I didn’t—” She cut herself short, eyes narrowing. “What is that?”
Before I could reply, she was striding toward me, gaze fixed on my cheek.
“Melantho.” Her voice was strangely quiet, strained almost. “Who did this?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me it wasn’t your brother.”
“I said it’s nothing.” I turned away, hating how ugly my words sounded against the softness of her concern.
Penelope captured my chin and tilted my face back to hers. Her touch was so gentle I felt the dangerous urge to lean into it, though the feeling was accompanied by a sharp stab of guilt.
How many slaves would you step on to keep Penelope’s attention?
I jerked away from her, my eyes settling on the swollen leather pouch Laertes had left on the table.
“What was Laertes’s offer?” I asked.
Penelope hesitated. “It was nothing of interest.”
“It must have been something.”
She sighed, touching a finger to her brow. “Laertes believes I require more handmaids. Apparently, it looks cheap for a future queen to only have three. He was worried I did not find any of the palace slaves ‘suitable’ and that was why I had been resistant.”
“He left you silver?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “He said the slaver is at the market today. He wanted me to send someone to purchase more handmaids. I am going to refuse, of course.”
“What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
Penelope hesitated at my tone. “Because I do not need more handmaids, and I think the slave market is barbaric. I want nothing to do with its business.”
“You already have something to do with it, Penelope. You own slaves.”
“A husband owns slaves,” she replied carefully. “A wife owns nothing.”
We stared at each other for a tense moment, knowing this was dangerous territory for us to tread.
“How much did he give you?”
“What does it matter?”
“What does it matter? Are you truly asking me that?”
Penelope watched with infuriating calmness as I stalked across the room and snatched up the leather pouch.
“Do you realize what this is?” I demanded, letting the silver pieces spill across the table. “This is a person’s life, Penelope. You have that power, right here, and you are asking me ‘what does it matter’?”
“I did not mean it like that,” she replied, her voice so maddeningly composed it only stoked my rage. Of course, she could be calm about this. It wasn’t her life on the line. “I chose the wrong wording—”
I threw the silver down in anger, the loud clatter of metal against wood silencing Penelope.
“You could save people’s lives with this. Laertes has given you that power, and you are going to refuse it?”
Penelope stared at the scattered silver. I hated how well she hid her thoughts, how she always kept me on the outside while I continually bared everything for her.
We are nothing to them.
“It is not so simple,” she finally said.
Her words splintered something in my heart, and I felt my rage rush up to greet it, filling in those fissures.
“It is that simple. You are just refusing to see it,” I snapped as I strode for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I need air. Do I have your permission, mistress?”
I watched the title land like a blow. She flinched, glancing away from me. I found no satisfaction in hurting her. If anything, it only made that pit in my stomach grow deeper.
You are nothing.
I did not wait for her reply as I stormed away.
In my hands, I clutched the leather pouch, the stolen silver tinkling inside like cruel laughter, chasing me from the palace.
***
The market bustled with life.
Wooden stalls filled the cobbled streets, canopied by colorful stretches of fabric playing in the sea breeze.
Some of the shops spilled from small, mud-brick buildings, their fronts opening out like giant gaping mouths.
In the distance, I could see the temple of Athena, modest yet proud, overlooking the hubbub below.
It felt freeing to melt into the crowds, losing myself in the vibrant current of overlapping lives.
People laughed and gossiped and argued, and sellers hollered over the commotion, eager to catch a buyer’s attention.
All around me, rich, dizzying smells filled the air.
There was so much to look at, I found my head snapping back and forth as I admired the stands—baked goods, fresh fish, ground spices.
I lingered at one that was selling jewelry, my eyes caught by the twinkle of gold.
“The finest in Ithaca,” the seller told me with a toothy grin.
I shook my head politely as I wandered on, surprised to see most of the sellers were women. But of course they were, for the men of Ithaca had left with their prince.
The scent of freshly baked flatbread lured me toward a tucked-away shop.
Inside, I saw a woman kneading dough on the countertop.
Stools were set up for patrons to sit and chat while she prepared their food.
Her strong hands worked with deft efficiency, and I saw glimpses of my mother within them as memories glowed inside me.
A hand grabbed my wrist.
I let out a yelp as I was tugged into the narrow passageway beside the baker’s shop. I stumbled, panic spasming in my chest as I clutched tightly at my pouch of silver.
“Has Dionysus stolen your mind?”
I stared up at the tall, slender figure before me. Her clothes were different, tattered and worn, a drab scarf concealing most of her features, but that rainfall voice was unmistakable.
“Penelope?” I gaped. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
The stolen silver suddenly felt heavier in my hands.
“I’m sure you’ve already figured it out,” I countered, lifting my chin.
“Of course I have. But I didn’t quite believe you’d be foolish enough to go through with it.”
I glared up at her. The passageway draped us in cool shadows, yet I could see the glint of her gray eyes, intent on mine. She was standing so close to me, too close. I took a step back and felt the wall press against my spine.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I did not have much choice in the matter.” She spoke calmly, but there was an undeniable edge to her voice. “If I had sent someone after you, how would I have explained this situation?”
I shrugged, and something flared in Penelope’s eyes, like a single star carving across a midnight sky.
“Do you not care about being caught?”
“It was a risk I was willing to take.”
“And what about me?”
“You?” I sneered. “You wouldn’t have been punished for my actions, princess.”