Penelope glanced between us, looking as if she were biting back a laugh.
“Princess, I’m sorry.” Melanthius bowed again. “I gotta take Melantho back to the kitchens. She’ll be scolded if not.”
“Yes. Of course. I am sorry for keeping you, Melantho.”
“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I could stay a bit more.”
“No, your brother is right. I must go as well. My father needs to speak with me after all.” Penelope’s smile curled wider. “I am told it is urgent.”
I found myself grinning as I watched the princess walk away, wishing with all my heart that I could follow.
“What were you doing?” Melanthius rounded on me once Penelope had disappeared.
“What? We were just…talking.”
“You can’t talk with her.”
“Why not? She’s nice.”
My brother grabbed my wrist, squeezing tight. “No, she isn’t nice, Melantho. She’s one ofthem.”
“One of who?”
“Our masters.” He spat on the ground as he’d seen the older boys do.
“She’s not like them—”
“They’re all the same, Mel.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.” He began pulling me back toward the kitchens. “You can’t trust her kind. Ever. Understood?”
I said nothing as I let him tug me away.
***
The following morning, a familiar figure stalked into the kitchens.
“You. Follow,” Acte said to me, her voice as bored as her stare.
I glanced at my mother, watching her face turn sickly pale. A spoon hung in her hand, our master’s cooked oats dripping thickly onto the countertop.
“No. No… Not so soon,” she whispered. “You can’t… She’s got duties here. Her place ishere.”
“Her place is wherever our masters decide it is.” Acte’s clawlike fingers dug into my shoulders, making me wince. “Come, girl. You have been summoned.”
3
Penelope’s chamber was light and airy and impeccably neat.
Streams of sunlight bathed the walls and floor, illuminating a large ivory chest painted with swirling patterns. To my right was a long bench draped with blankets and pillows. To my left, the room opened out onto a balcony, the famed Taygetus Mountains towering in the distance like ancient, sleeping giants.
Penelope was at the far end of the room, working at her loom. As we approached, I watched her deftly lacing a red thread through the taut strands.
“Mistress Penelope, apologies for interrupting your work, but I have brought the slave as you requested,” Acte said in that soft voice she only used around our masters.
“Melantho,” Penelope replied without looking up from her work. “Her name is Melantho.”
