“Me too,” I said quickly. “I know enough too.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. We both glanced around the room, avoiding each other’s eye.
“Your wrist,” I blurted out.
“Pardon?”
“Your wrist. Does it still hurt?”
“Oh.” Penelope touched it absently. “It’s fine. Thank you for asking.”
I nodded, scuffing my feet against the floor. “So you gonna teach me to be a handmaid now then?”
“I suppose so, yes.” Penelope nodded. “But first, I have something for you.”
“For…me?”
“A gift. For yesterday.”
I blinked at her. Nobody had ever given me a gift before.
A bubble of excitement expanded inside me as Penelope walked toward the table, then returned with a large bowl in her hands, piled high with fat, glistening honeyed figs.
She offered the bowl to me, and I stared down at the figs, unsure why my eyes were suddenly so hot and it felt like I wanted to cry and laugh and dance all at the same time.
Penelope’s face fell. “Do you not like it?”
I shook my head.
“Then what’s the matter?”
“W-will…will you be my best friend?” The question escaped me in a breathless jumble.
A grin spread across Penelope’s face, and the sight of it made my insides feel as if I had just swallowed a burst of sunlight.
“I would like that very much, Melantho.”
4
We became inseparable after that day, tumbling headfirst into afriendship that felt forged long ago, as if it had always existed within us, waiting to be discovered.
Before long, we refused even to spend our nights apart. Penelope had a pallet made up for me beside her bed, and though I missed the warmth of my mother’s embrace, I welcomed having my own space for the first time in my life. I also welcomed the opportunity to spend more time with Penelope, often forgetting to get any sleep at all in my haste to fill more hours with her company.
We wanted to know everything about each other—every thought, every memory, every feeling—letting it become ours to share.
Whenever Penelope spoke of her royal life, it was like peering into a thrilling, distant world, one I was desperate to be a part of. Though when it came to family, Penelope said noticeably little. She briefly mentioned her elder sister, who had been married off to a faraway king when Penelope was very young. She seemed to actively dislike talking about her father, though she did recount the story surrounding her birth, how she had been born sickly and her father had instructed she be thrown into the sea. I gasped when she said this, feeling dizzy with anger. It was customary, she reminded me in a matter-of-fact tone, to discard weak children at birth, especially girls. It was said Penelope had been saved by a flock of ducks who carried her to safety. Herfather had been delighted by this divine sign, for it could only have been a message from the gods. He had cherished her ever since.
“That is how the story goes anyway,” Penelope said.
“You don’t believe it?” I asked, still mesmerized at the idea that she had been saved by the gods.
She flashed that secretive smile of hers and replied, “I think my wet nurse was very cunning, and I think my father was always jealous of the rumors surrounding my uncle’s children. He wanted a child beloved by the gods, too, so he was ready to believe any story, however fanciful.”
“So it’s true about King Tyndareus’s children? That only one of each pair of twins was fathered by Zeus?”
“Apparently so. It has caused endless competition between Castor and Polydeuces. The princesses, however, do not seem to mind all that much.”
“Because everyone knows Helen is Zeus’s daughter,” I pointed out. “Because she’s the most beautiful.”
