But it never came.She could never call that heat, even so very near, from the grate to the metal in her hand.
Her feet went numb.Her fingers tingled.Her arms, held in front of her, outstretched toward the unforgiving fire, trembled with their own weight.Sweat beaded on her brow and dampened the hair at her temples, her neck as she called it, pleaded with it.She closed her eyes and imagined it wrapping around the chunk of unshaped metal.She would not fear it.She promised.She’d played with fire before, coming to it, giving it her body, and they’d been good friends.
But still again.
And again.
She failed.
Iron this time.Then silver again.Lead.Lead, lead, lead.Her arms like lead.Her neck ready to snap under the leaden weight of her head.
But still again.
Gold.Apollo’s golden disk held like an offering to Hestia, who did not love her.Vulcan, then.Please.
Please,please.
“Good God, Sybil.”Warm hands on her shoulder, her bare neck, the dark shape of a body stepping between her and the fire.
She tried to struggle past it.
“You’ve had enough.I should have paid closer attention.”
She blinked and blinked and blinked and finally the world sharpened.His face came into focus.Apollo.He curled her hand closed around his gold, and her arms—so heavy, too heavy—dropped to her side.
He stepped closer.“How long have you been like this?Crying?You?Let’s get you to bed.”His voice rough.
The world tilted, and he was holding her like a babe, safe against his chest.
“No.I can do more.”Her throat felt raw, and her words sounded small.
“No.”He laid her carefully atop his bed.
She swatted his shoulder.“Do not manhandle me.”No weight to the words.
He took off her shoes and stockings, his hands gentle, his touch light.For a moment—so slight she might have imagined it—he slipped his hand beneath her skirts, caressed her calf.Then he cursed and covered her with the blankets.“Stay there.”
She’d run out of fight.The bed was too comfortable.She curled up on her side, and by the time he returned, she’d all but fallen asleep, one hand beneath the pillow.
He knelt before her with a cup of wine.“Drink some of this.There’s a sleeping potion in here.”He held it to her lips, and she hesitated.“If you’re left to fall asleep on your own, you’ll do nothing but think about why it didn’t work and blame yourself and chastise yourself, and”—he sighed—“just drink it.”
“This is your bed.Mine is in the”—she yawned—“other room.”
“We’re switching.”
She nodded, sipped the drink.It had been years since someone had taken care of her.Not since she had been, oh, thirteen or fourteen and sick with a fever.Her mother had pressed cold cloths to her head all night long.But now Sybil did the pressing, the organizing, the managing, the remembering.The general of the Grant Army.
She hadn’t seen her family since the day Stone’s henchmen had grabbed her.
She wiped a tear from her eye before it could fall.“No one takes care of generals.”
“What does that mean?”His gaze roved over her face.
She yawned again.“I’m sorry.I’ll do better next time.”
“You’re absurd.”
She closed her eyes, and a wind brushed across her cheek.No, not the wind.More solid than that.
