“Fine,” Jason grunted as he climbed up to the stern deck, “clear this up and get us back on track.”
“Impossible,” muttered Tiphys, pouring over the swirls of ink. “How can an island the size of Lemnos not be recorded on a single map?” He lowered his face closer to the parchments. “There’s only one thing for it—I’ll have to draw it on myself.” He glanced up at Danae. “Fetch me ink and quill, will you?”
“Enough!” Jason seized a fistful of maps and thrust them in Tiphys’s face. “If you mention that damned place again, I will throw these overboard.” He tossed the scrolls at the navigator, then swung around to face the crew. “No one is to speak of that island—that’s an order. And why in Tartarus have you stopped rowing?”
As Jason stormed back to the prow deck, Danae and Tiphys scurried to rescue the maps from flying overboard.
“Thank you,” said Tiphys quietly.
As the navigator eased the parchments from her arms, she looked down at the last map trapped below her knee. She was about to roll it up when something caught her eye.
There it was, barely larger than a thumb print. Her home.
Naxos was so small, so far away. She stared at it for a moment, then her eyes traveled east. Past the jaws of the Black Sea, the map grew sparse. There was hardly any writing, just the outline of the land and, at the very edge of the page, a row of peaks. The Caucasus Mountains where Prometheus was imprisoned.
The mountain where her destiny waited.
Danae woke to a sky pricked with stars. She lay on the deck, staring at the night, until the sound that had roused her caught her ears once more.
Someone was crying.
Silently, she rolled onto her side. Beside her, Atalanta’s silver breastplate was trembling. As she watched her weep, the warrior’s vulnerability held her still. She eased closer and, after a breath of hesitation, placed a hand on Atalanta’s arm.
The warrior stiffened. Immediately, Danae realized she had made a terrible mistake, and waited for the inevitable squeeze of hands around her throat. But to her surprise, instead of pushing her away, Atalanta’s body melted.
Danae edged forward, until the warrior’s armor pressed against her chest. Atalanta still did not pull away. Her hair smelled of oak wood, salt and something sweet like honeysuckle, and despite the cool night air her skin was warm as sun-baked stone.
Danae had slept this way with her sister more times than she could count, but this was different. She was very aware of all the places their skin touched. A thrill of pride whispered through her that Atalanta allowed her to be this close.
They stayed this way, the curve of their bodies pressed together, until Atalanta’s breathing calmed.
Then the warrior peeled back and wiped her face. “Tell anyone and I’ll kill you.”
“I know,” Danae whispered.
Atalanta rolled away and Danae’s gaze lingered on her back, watching the moonlight pool in the creases of her armor.
For three days the sun reigned unchallenged in the sky, and a strong northeasterly wind bloated their sail.
Danae sat with Hylas on his rowing bench, the pair eating their lunch rations. She paused, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth, as Hylas began to dissect a fig. He grasped the base in his fingers and carefully peeled it apart from the stem until the fleshy insides splayed out like a bloom.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“You ask the strangest questions.” He laughed at the intensity in her gaze. “It’s how I’ve always eaten them. It makes it last longer.” He popped a piece on his tongue. “Unlike some, I like to savor my food.”
Danae looked down at her hands. Her sister was the only other person she’d known to eat a fig that way.
“Will you do something for me?”
Hylas swallowed his mouthful. “Depends what it is.”
“Will you cut my hair?”
Despite hating it when Manto first hacked off her curls, she’d become used to her crop. She felt freer without her tangled mane, and no seer worth their coin would let their hair grow past their shoulders.
“I’m only asking because I don’t trust any of the others not to make me look ridiculous. And you grew up on a farm, so you’ll know what to do.”
Hylas chuckled. “Are you comparing yourself to a sheep?”
