4
Psyche
“I swear to the gods, if Mother gets one more party invitation, I’m going to pull a Zeus and throw myself out a window.”
I pause in the middle of sorting through the dresses in the rack in front of me.
None of them are right. They’re all pretty in a pale sort of way, but this designer has a nasty habit of merely adding inches to their plus sizes instead of actually taking into account how different my curves are from a size two.
I had heard they’d gotten better with the new spring line, but obviously I was misinformed.
That irritation matters less than what my sister is spouting off behind me, within easy eavesdropping range of everyone in this shop.
The last thing we need is more of a scandal, especially right now.
The rumors about me and Eros have held on longer than I expected—it’s been a slow news month in Olympus and that was a truly excellent photograph to get the gossip mill churning—but they will pass.
Or they will pass as long as we keep our heads down and our mouths shut.
Eros has all but disappeared from the public eye; smart of him.
I don’t have that option, so the only other route is to go on about my life as if I’m not the subject of everyone’s conjecture.
Today, that means shopping.
Just my luck that my eldest sister is feeling overprotective and decided to tag along.
I turn around and level a look at Callisto.
As always, she’s dressed in a pseudo grunge look that makes her appear like a model on her day off.
We share the same dark brown hair and hazel eyes, but Callisto’s beauty is sharp enough to cut while mine is a softer variation.
She’s never had to deal with Mother trying to gently guide her to try some new diet, but any resentment I felt about our differences is ancient history now.
What isn’t ancient history is how godsdamned reckless she is.
I march over to where she’s sprawled on the waiting area couch and lean over her. “Keep your voice down.”
Callisto narrows her eyes. “What do you care if these lemmings hear? I’m only speaking the truth.”
It’s been a little over two months since Zeus’s “accidental” death and Olympus is still reeling. Making a joke about it will be in poor taste twenty years from now, but right now it’s a great way to attract the kind of headline we do not need at the moment.
Dimitriou daughters mock the former Zeus’s death!
On the heels of the Eros photograph, Mother might actually follow through on one of her many threats to toss her frustrating daughters out the nearest window.
I’m sure Perseus—er, Zeus—would be delighted by that.
We’re under strict instructions to avoid making him angry, and Callisto seems to have taken that as a challenge to see how far she can push things.
Normally, it would be a minor irritation, but we’re under a much heavier spotlight right now.
I still can’t believe I was so foolish as to get caught alone with Aphrodite’s son.
I’ve received no less than three of Mother’s lectures about my irresponsibility and how this will affect my prospects with Zeus.
Having my name struck from the list of Zeus’s potential partners is hardly a great loss in my opinion, but I’m smart enough not to say that out loud.
Unlike my sister.
I lean down farther and lower my voice. “You know everyone is watching us right now. Stop trying to stir the pot.”
Callisto lifts her brows, completely unrepentant. “If you’d stop babysitting me, I’d do something to get the focus off you. It won’t take much, and I’ll even enjoy it.”
“Callisto, no.” Her idea of help is usually the exact opposite. Even though I know better, I can’t help but ask, “What would you even do?”
“Oh, I haven’t thought about it too hard. Probably shove Aphrodite into traffic. Maybe I’ll get lucky and her asshole son will be with her. A two-for-one bargain.”
Of course. I don’t know why I even asked. “If you piss off Zeus and Mother, I’m going to be the one who has to clean up the mess. Please don’t—for my sake.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to snarl, hesitates, and finally curses. “Okay, fine. I’ll play nice, but I’m serious about not wanting to attend the next party. Now that Persephone’s off living her happily wedded bliss, Mother doesn’t let me make excuses anymore.”
I don’t point out that there have been several parties since Persephone moved to the lower city, and Callisto never let Mother bully her before.
She’s doing it for me, so I won’t have to face the vipers alone.
Really, she’s the only one capable of it.
After having her heart broken by Orpheus, Eurydice is too fragile to deal with the backstabbing of the glittering crowd that surrounds the Thirteen—and she wasn’t all that good at it before.
She’s too likely to take everyone at their word and assume innocence while surrounded by people who lie as easily as they breathe.
Callisto doesn’t have that problem. Then again, Callisto is much more likely to stab someone with a salad fork—or shove them into traffic, apparently.
The former is something she actually did at the party before last; it was the reason Mother relented and let her stay home recently.
That reminds me… “How is Ares? I haven’t seen anything on MuseWatch about him.
” Now that I think about it, I hadn’t seen him at the last party, either.
“I’m sure he’s fine. It was only a surface wound.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. “If he hadn’t called Persephone a fickle w—” She curses. “I refuse to repeat it. If he hadn’t called our sister that , it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“It’s only words, and Persephone could care less what anyone on this side of the river thinks of her—family excluded, of course.”
“She doesn’t care, but I care.” Callisto examines her fingernails. “They might fight with words, but eventually they’ll figure out that I don’t stop there.”
“Insults and assault are two very different things.” Though, honestly, I don’t think Mother smoothed this one over the way she has with Callisto’s…missteps…in the past. If she had, we would have heard about it, but after the initial lecture, it never came up again.
“Are they?” She shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”
There’s no getting through to Callisto. She might consent to attending the endless parties Mother is dragging us to, but she’ll never play the game.
I still haven’t quite figured out how she’s pulled that off, but it’s something I can’t replicate.
“If I go try on a few dresses, will you behave yourself?”
She shrugs a single shoulder. “There’s no one in here that pisses me off, so odds are good.”
They’d only stay good for as long as that remained true. I straighten. “There’s this little thing called self-control. You should try it sometime. You might even like the results.”
My sister laughs. She might be just shy of vicious to everyone outside our little family unit, but she laughs like an angel—or a siren, more accurately. I catch the saleslady peering with interest in our direction and barely manage to resist rolling my eyes. “I’ll be quick.”
“Good idea.”
I grab the most promising options off the rack and head back into the changing rooms. They’re large enough for several people to fit in each one, which makes sense because so many of the upper crust of Olympia seem to dress themselves by committee.
Maybe I would, too, if any of my sisters showed any interest in fashion.
Callisto ignores it and Eurydice dresses in whatever is available.
Persephone is the only one who used to enjoy it, just a little, but those shopping trips with her are in the past. She’s too busy running half the city with her husband now.
I don’t begrudge Persephone her happiness.
I truly don’t. But I miss her. Her infrequent trips to this side of the River Styx are never enough, and Mother already has an issue with Eurydice visiting the lower city so often.
If I started doing it as well, her head might actually explode. Especially now.
No, for better or worse, my options are limited.
I strip out of my dress and try on the first dress. As I suspected, it’s a terrible fit. It clings in places it’s not meant to cling and is baggy through places it shouldn’t be baggy. I sigh and peel the disappointing garment off.
“That’s godsawful. I expected better of Thalia.”
I freeze in the middle of hanging the dress up.
I know that voice, but even as I tell myself it’s not possible, I look in the mirror and meet the gaze of Hermes.
She’s a petite Black woman with natural hair who favors quirky wide-frame glasses and has the gift of mimicry.
Today her glasses are bright red and she’s wearing purple glittering pants, an orange hoodie with the picture of a cat on the front of it, its eyes bugging out, and red Chucks.
I suppose when you’re one of the Thirteen, you can do whatever you want and people just accept it.
The benefit of power. Hermes, in particular, doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her.
She appears to enjoy shocking people and challenging their expectations, which would be enough to make her interesting to me, but she’s one of the Thirteen, so I try to steer clear.
There’s no steering clear now.
I don’t try to cover myself, don’t blush, don’t react in any way that would tell her I’m nonplussed by this development. “Hello, Hermes.”
“Hi, Psyche.” She leans down and stares at my breasts. “Is that a Juliette bra? It’s exquisite. And I’m not just saying that because your tits are a ten.”