To the west, the dying sun spilled gold over the turquoise waves. Despite the heat that still clung to the land, Danae shivered with anticipation. She looked ahead at her mother and sister. They were so similar; both tall and delicate, crowned with the same auburn curls, their olive skin painted with matching freckles. Danae had always been told she looked like her father. She was proud to have his strong features, but no one had ever called her a beauty.
The crowd swelled as more women joined the procession, the air bustling with the click of cicadas and nervous chatter. This was the only occasion in which the women of Naxos were allowed out without their men. On this night every year, women from all over the island made the pilgrimage inland to the temple of Demeter for the Thesmophoria.
It was vital to honor the Goddess of the Harvest on this sacred night. If Demeter was displeased with their offerings, the following year’s crops would fail and children would be born lifeless.
And this year, both the wheat and barley crops had been crippled by blight.
Evidently, last year’s offerings had not been enough, and if the goddess was not placated by their gifts tonight, only one thing would quench her rage.
Danae had witnessed four human sacrifices in her lifetime, and each year the harvest was poor, the threat of it circled over the heads of the unmarried girls like vultures over carrion. But she was not afraid. As her mother had said, the priestesses always chose the blood of the meekest, unmarried girls to appease the goddess. Never anyone who irritated their mother as much as she did.
She looked around at the women in their swathes of colored fabrics. The wives of the island were draped in their finest dresses, while their virgin daughters looked like lambs, bobbling behind them in tunics of white. Some hid their fear well, others couldn’t stop their lips from trembling.
Heads tilted as she passed. Some were subtle, some stared openly as her family walked by. She tugged at the darned hem of her graying tunic, suddenly self-conscious. Glancing up, she almost caught someone’s eye, but the woman’s gaze slid past her to settle on Alea. No one was looking at her.
The band her mother had fastened around her tightly coiled hair itched, and she prized her fingers under the stubborn fabric to scratch.
Her hand was slapped away.
“Leave it alone.” Her mother sighed. “It already looks like a bird’s nest.”
Danae glanced at her sister and rolled her eyes.
Alea giggled, then whispered, “I think your hair looks beautiful.”
She knew it wasn’t true, but she loved her sister for trying. There wasn’t a curl out of place on Alea’s head. She wore a striking green headband woven with yellow ears of corn. It was the band their mother had worn the day she married their father. No wonder people were staring, Alea looked more beautiful than the harvest goddess herself. Not that Danae would ever say that out loud. The gods were always listening.
“Eleni!”
Melia, the blacksmith’s wife, waved at them across the crowd. Her daughters, both clad in white, were trailing along behind her. The two families navigated through the stream of bodies, until they were walking side by side.
Both Eleni and Melia opened their mouths to say the sacred greeting at the same time, but the blacksmith’s wife was faster.
“The Twelve see you and know you,” Melia said swiftly, her lips spreading into a satisfied smile.
Of course Melia would make sure she was the first to say the words that welcomed the gods into every crevice of their lives. Her mother smiled graciously and touched her middle finger to her forehead, showing that she returned the sentiment.
Melia’s eyes swept over Alea. “Oh, doesn’t she look stunning?” She moved closer but didn’t lower her voice. “You must tell me when we can expect the wedding. It’s going to be the event of the season! That is, if Odell can afford it.” She patted Eleni’s arm. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that for much longer. A merchant’s son no less, I still can’t believe it.”
Danae bit the inside of her cheeks. She hated having to be polite to odious village gossips. She glanced at Alea and her jaw tightened at the deep flush that had spread over her sister’s face.
Alea’s betrothal was an unusual one and not everyone was pleased. There were mutterings around the village that Alea’s intended was lowering himself by marrying the daughter of a fisherman. There were even whispers that he’d compromised her and been forced into the marriage by their father. They could all go to Tartarus in Danae’s opinion.
“I’m sure it will be easier to find a match for Danae once Alea is wed. Are there really no fishermen’s sons that will have her?”
Alea reached for her hand, but it was too late.
“Are either of your daughters promised, Melia?”
The blacksmith’s wife blinked as though she’d forgotten Danae was there. She opened her mouth then paused before her lips formed the word “no.”
“Well, then, perhaps you should keep your advice to yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” Eleni muttered as Melia turned a sunset shade of crimson. “We should, ah, we’ll see you at the festival!” Without giving the other woman time to reply, she took hold of her daughters and dragged them into the crowd.
“Danae,” her mother said wearily.
“I’m sorry, but she always talks like she’s got one of her husband’s pokers shoved up her ass.”
