Chapter III
III
“Hold still.”
I wince as Stheno pulls my locs tighter, but she pointedly ignores me and continues her work. She sits on a stool, and I sit between her knees. When she tugs at a particularly tender part of my head, I turn and glower.
“You’re going to pull my hair out!”
“It’ll grow back.” She shrugs. “Now turn around.”
I obey, but grudgingly. I know that, for the most part, Stheno is only teasing.
All my life, my sisters have taken turns doing my hair, and they do try to be gentle.
They were the ones who twisted my hair into locs like theirs when I was small.
Euryale often massaged my scalp with diluted coconut oil, while Stheno showed me where to find the island’s best freshwater pools to wash my locs.
They are my dearest physical possession, and in many ways they are also a constant reminder of my sisters’ love.
I pinch one between my forefinger and thumb now, remembering when I once complained that they were too short.
They’ll grow longer with time, Euryale reminded me then, laughing when I pointed out how long hers already were. You just have to be patient.
They’ll grow to be even more beautiful than they are now, Stheno added, rolling her eyes. Then you’ll be absolutely insufferable, and we’ll have to toss you into the sea.
I smile at that old memory now. In the end, Stheno was right.
My locs have grown to be as beautiful as she promised, and she teases me mercilessly every time she catches me absently playing with them.
That is my eldest sister’s kind of love.
It is never honeyed, but I still find hidden sweetness in it.
Perhaps it’s because I know, deep down, that Stheno’s natural tendency for candor means I can always trust her.
I know she’d never lie to me, even if the truth hurt.
I’d certainly be glad for some of that candor now as she continues retwisting my roots, but today Stheno stays quiet.
I feel the tension in her fingers as she gathers up my locs to arrange them in an elaborate half bun atop my head, then pin it with golden helichrysums. That tension seeps into my scalp and needles down my spine, leaving me fidgety.
Neither of us says it, but we both know the source of this tension.
Today, the prince arrives.
My mother was right about one thing: By all accounts, the gods and goddesses of the Sea Court talked about our spring celebration feast for many weeks.
Some even talked about how beautiful Phorcys’s three daughters had become.
Unfortunately, talk had not yielded much in the way of viable suitors for my sisters and me.
As the days turned to weeks, then a month, the anxiety in our household grew as thick as the early summer’s stifling heat.
I suspect that is why my father responded with great enthusiasm when he finally received a message from Prince Maheer only a fortnight ago, asking if he could pay us a visit.
Before, talk of marriage had been nebulous and vague, a thing of some distant, opaque future.
Now there is no uncertainty as to what is about to happen.
Today, one of us will become the prince’s betrothed.
“Did you know he’s a demigod?” Across her opulent bedchamber, my mother seems unable to stop herself from constantly tugging at and adjusting Euryale’s tunic.
Her hands fly about like frantic sparrows, and the excitement in her voice is offset by another emotion I can’t quite name.
“He’s a bastard of Ares, but his mother is a mortal princess,” she continues.
“Through her, he stands to inherit a small but wealthy kingdom in the lands they call Aithiopia. His wife will also be entitled to that wealth.” She looks up and lets her gaze linger over each of us in turn.
“It is of great importance that a match be made today. Do you understand?”
I have never taken much interest in the complicated hierarchy by which gods arrange themselves, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of it.
As daughters of minor sea gods, it would be improbable for my sisters and me to wed the legitimate children of the more illustrious Olympians, but a bastard child is different.
The bastard of an Olympian is both suitable for our station and an undeniable link to higher status and prestige.
To be sure, gods enjoy flaunting their wealth, but what they covet most jealously is the inimitable currency that comes with power.
I know power is what my father craves most of all, just as I know that he will use us to take as much of it as he can.
“I suppose we should go.” My mother stops her fussing and gestures for the three of us to line up before her, giving us each a final inspection.
We’ve all had new tunics made for this occasion.
Stheno’s is dyed lavender, Euryale’s is yellow.
My tunic is a pale spring green. The curtains in my mother’s room are drawn back, but the summer air is still heavy with the scent of the marjoram oil we’ve dabbed onto our arms and necks.
I hold my breath as she looks me over last, then nods with rare approval.
I can tell, even at a glance, that she hasn’t been drinking today; strangely, it makes her seem younger, like she could be our fourth and eldest sister.
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself.
“One day, the last of you will marry and leave me.” A soft laugh escapes her, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Then I’ll be on this island all alone.”
My sisters and I shift uncomfortably where we stand.
In truth, my mother’s words bite into a soft part of me I didn’t know I’d left exposed.
Growing up, I rarely felt the kind of bond with her I knew daughters were expected to, but in that moment, I know without a doubt that my mother and I are bonded by something.
I know because in her eyes I see a wistfulness I’ve seen mirrored in my own, a bone-deep longing to leave this place.
My mother is eons old, but I find myself wondering who she was at seventeen, before she was a wife, a mother.
I know little of her past, but I do know that she and my father were not born on this island, as we were.
I’m not sure what’s worse: to never know a world beyond this one, or to know it and still be confined.
My mother and I lock eyes for just a second before she raises her chin imperiously.
“Come,” she orders. “The prince is waiting.”
—
Our gardens have been transformed.
They are lovely any day of the year, but as my sisters and I follow our mother through the neatly raked dirt paths and corridors of perfectly trimmed hedges, I can tell that more care than usual has been taken to make them look magnificent for the prince’s arrival.
When we reach the open lawn where my father’s already sitting, he offers only a cursory nod as we take our seats beside him.
Stheno and Euryale are like my mother, cool and elegant despite the blistering sun overhead.
I am, as usual, less so. Inside, the air was sweltering; outside, it is oppressive.
One look at the slaves posted in a line by the edge of the lawn tells me I’m not the only one uncomfortable in this heat, but of course my parents and sisters would not notice.
As immortals, they are far more tolerant of the elements than I’ll ever be.
To distract myself, I look around the lawn.
Only then do I realize its significance.
It’s been almost two months since Theo and I accidentally stumbled upon Poseidon and the sea nymph together on this very grass.
In the days following the feast, I tried to bury what I’d seen, but the memory took root within me and grew like a stubborn weed.
Even now, I find that I can still picture everything I witnessed with perfect clarity: the way Poseidon traced a knuckle down the hollow of the sea nymph’s neck before venturing lower, the way the sea nymph’s tunic was pulled up around her waist, how her bare brown legs looked under the glittering starlight.
I went to sleep that night full of questions, but in the morning, I found no one to answer them.
I’d always been able to talk to Stheno and Euryale about anything, but for the first time I wasn’t able to.
I wondered if my sisters would know what Poseidon and the nymph had been doing.
I wondered if they’d scold me for watching or, worse, tease me.
In the end, I decided that I didn’t want them to do either, and so I said nothing.
As for Theo, he all but pretended it had never happened.
I look up now, hoping to find my friend among the other slaves standing at attention, but to my disappointment, Theo is nowhere in sight. I shift in my seat, considering what the consequences of asking for water or a fan might be.
Then the quiet is shattered by a snarl.
It is a raw, guttural sound that sets my teeth on edge.
Every one of the slaves jolts as though they’ve been struck, and though my parents and sisters are subtler, I notice that even they tense in surprise and confusion.
There is a pregnant pause, a moment in which it seems the whole lawn has stilled.
Then I hear a new sound, the distinct metallic clinking of chains drawing nearer.
A second later, the source of both noises becomes clear.
A pair of large, muscled men wearing neat white tunics rounds the line of cypresses. I suspect they are slaves, too, but I spare them only a glance. I’m much more fascinated—and terrified—by what walks between them: the creature responsible for that hideous snarl.