Hippodamia reached over to squeeze Penelope’s hand. “Of course, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me to ask.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Eurynome whispered to me as I refilled my wine again.
“What? I’mcelebratingmy marriage,” I whispered back with a grin. “Or lack of one.”
“She will regret it in the morning,” Thratta muttered from my other side.
I ignored her as I drank, glaring at Penelope over the cup’s rim, willing her to look at me.
“The mood has been foul since this news of Achilles,” Hippodamia announced. “Let’s have a song, Autonoë, darling! Something to cheer us up.”
“What song would you like?” Autonoë asked, brushing her fingers through her long, glossy tendrils.
“Let’s have one aboutlove,” I said loudly. “What do you think, my queen?”
Finally, Penelope met my gaze, her expression infuriatingly blank as she replied, “If that is what the others wish for.”
“What about a tale in honor of Achilles’s passing? Of his great love for Patroclus?” Autonoë offered.
“Oh yes! Perfect!” Hippodamia smiled, settling into the cushionsshe had piled behind her as Autonoë reached for her lyre.
“Penelope asked me a question once,” I interjected, rising to my feet. The world tipped beneath me, and Thratta flung an arm out, but I managed to catch myself with a hand on the back of my chair. “Do you think Achilles and Patroclus admitted their love to each other?”
There was a pause before Hippodamia answered, “I certainly hope they did.”
“Why?” I pressed.
She watched me with cautious eyes. “Well…it would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
“Exactly! What a shame it would be. What a waste.” The room tipped again, so I gripped the chair a little tighter. “Ten summers. Imagine that. Imagine wastingten summersloving someone so pointlessly. It’s pathetic really, isn’t it? Utterly pathetic—”
“Melantho.” Penelope rose, the steadiness of her voice slicing through mine. “I think it best if you retire.”
“Is that an order,mistress?” I smirked as Penelope stiffened beneath the title. “What happens if I disobey? Will I be punished? Will you have me whipped again? Did I ever tell you all about that?” I turned to the others, and their faces swayed around me like churning waves. “When we were children, Penelope had me whipped.”
“Melantho,” she breathed. “Please, do not.”
“I was only nine at the time, and I was so scared I pissed myself.” I laughed, the sound rough against the accompanying silence. “Oh, come on. We can joke about it now. It’s funny. Isn’t it funny, Penelope?”
She stared wordlessly at me, eyes filled with a pain I refused to acknowledge.
“The wounds became infected. I nearly died, you know. Actually, come to think of it, Penelope never knew that. She ran away. Seems she has a habit of running away from things that scare her, don’t you, my queen?”
“Melantho.” My name was a warning now.
“Penelope.” I stared at her in challenge, dragging her name over my tongue. “Penelope, Penelope, Penelope.”
She glanced away while the others shared perplexed glances.
“I still have the scars,” I continued, speaking to the room, though my eyes remained fixed on the queen of Ithaca. “I’m sure you’ve all seen already, though I try to hide them. Do you want to see them now? I’ll show you.”
I began unclasping my gown, but a firm, tattooed hand locked around my wrist, halting me.
“Enough.” Thratta loomed over me.
“Get off,” I snapped.
She shook her head, her face blurring with the movement. I tried to break free, but she swept me into her arms, causing the room to tumble away like spilled wine.
