Carefully, she drew out the prophecy stone and placed it on the floor. She peeled back each side of the fabric wrapping until the obsidian shard lay naked, shining in the light of the bathhouse room. As she leaned closer, she thought she could hear whispers coming from inside the stone. She was afraid to touch it and yet she was compelled to. As her hand hovered over it, her fingertips began to ache.
The whispers grew louder. They were men’s voices. Then she realized they weren’t coming from the stone. The words “Athens” and “ring” carried down the corridor.
Danae leaped out of the water, hastily rewrapped the prophecy stone, shoved it back into her bag, then tugged on her wet dress. She slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her sandals with the other hand. There was no time to put them on.
She ducked through the curtain, almost colliding with the slave girl. They looked at each other for a moment, then the girl’s eyes darted toward a narrow passage that led away from the entrance hall.
Danae ran until she reached the end of the corridor, skidding to a halt outside a small wooden door. As she opened it, steam billowed in her face. In the room beyond, vast iron tubs with fires lit beneath them were stationed at intervals along the floor and rows of folded laundry were stacked on shelves at either side. Red-faced women in stained aprons leaned over the vats, stirring the contents with large wooden sticks.
She hesitated for a moment, then darted forward, ignoring the women’s cries as she sprinted out of the bathhouse.
She pelted through the streets, every few moments glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Her wet dress clung uncomfortably to her body, restricting her movements. Then a flash of blue at the end of the street sent her pulse racing. Without waiting to find out if it was the cloak of an Athenian guard, she dived through the doorway of the nearest shop.
Spools of fabric were stacked along the walls in rainbows of silk, linen and wool. She paced to the back of the room and, keeping an eye on the door, pretended to examine a length of green cloth.
“May the Twelve see you and know you. A seer in my shop. Now that’s not something that happens every day.”
Danae whirled around. An ancient woman was peering up at her through rheumy eyes.
“Oh, you’re soaking wet.”
Danae glanced down at the puddle around her bare feet.
The old woman shook her head. “I’ll never understand you mystic types. Still, who am I to question those who speak to the gods.”
Danae was barely listening, tensing with each shadow that passed the door.
“Not even a cloak to keep you warm...” She tutted at the sandals in Danae’s hand. “Those look like you’ve run across half of Greece.”
“What did you say?”
The old woman shrank back. “I’m sorry, I only meant—”
“A cloak.” That was exactly what she needed. A large, hooded cloak. “Do you have one in black?”
The shopkeeper looked relieved. “I’ll have to check in the back.” She scurried under a drape at the rear of the shop.
After a few scrapes and bangs, the old woman reemerged with a pair of long strapped leather sandals and a folded pile of fine black, woolen fabric.
“Thought you might like these, as well.”
She lay the sandals down and Danae slipped her feet between the woven leather. They fit perfectly. As she bent down to tie up the straps she admired the fine craftsmanship, stitching so delicate you could barely see it, yet they felt much sturdier than her old sandals.
The shopkeeper unfurled the obsidian cloak and swung it over Danae’s shoulders. She fastened the neck with a copper clasp.
“Come,” she grabbed Danae’s hand and pulled her toward the front of the shop, where a large bronze mirror hung on the wall.
Danae glanced worriedly at the door, then stopped as she caught sight of herself.
She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her. She’d only ever caught glimpses of her reflection in still rock pools. Her family and the village had effectively been her mirror. She looked so much older than the child she’d been on Naxos. Draped in the black folds of the cloak, she was every stitch a seer. Her breath fluttered in her chest. Her short hair drew out a whisper of Alea in her cheekbones. She was still the image of her father, but it was a comfort to know that she carried her sister in her bones.
“Well?” the shopkeeper asked.
“Yes.” Danae smiled. “It will do.”
Her purse several coins lighter, Danae emerged onto the street, the hood of her cloak pulled over her face. She had to find Prometheus, but she had no idea which way the Black Sea was. What she needed was a map.
A bell tolled as she walked away from the shop. A step later, she flinched as the door slammed shut behind her. She looked back to see the old shopkeeper heave a wooden board over the window. By the time she turned back around, the street was deserted. Doors that had previously been open were bolted, and iron locks had been slid across the painted shutters. Her frown deepening, she walked back to the fabric shop and rapped on the door.
