“You will get through this,” I said. “You have been leading Ithaca for all this time, and you will continue to do so. You are smart and brave and benevolent and everything Ithaca could need in a ruler.”
“But I am not a man.”
“No, you are not. You are better than any man.”
She smiled faintly. “Ithaca needs a king.”
“And they shall have one. Once Telemachus is ready, he will take his rightful place on his father’s throne. You just have to hold on for a little longer. Deny all rumors of Odysseus’s betrayal, continue as the loyal, faithful wife awaiting her husband’s return. His legend will continue to loom over the throne and scare off any hopefuls until Telemachus is ready to ascend. It will be all right. I know it will.”
There was something in her expression then, a tightening of her features.
“What? What is it?” I asked.
“Come back with me.”
“Penelope—”
“It was Odysseus’s homecoming that forced us apart. But he is not coming home. He has made his choice. So let us make our own.”
“You are still his wife, and now that title matters more than ever. It is the only thing keeping you safe here. If someone suspects—”
“Who would suspect? If you were a man, yes. But most do not even believethispossible.” She brought our intertwined fingers to her lips. “We will be careful.”
“I will always be a risk to you because of what you mean to me. You know that.”
“Melantho, I am already at risk.”
I shook my head. It was unbearable to think of Penelope in danger.
How could Odysseus do this to her? How could he abandon his own wife to fend off the wolves while she tried to keep his throne safe for their son?
That selfish, traitorous, entitled worm.
If I ever saw him again, I vowed I would slit his throat.
“At least this risk will be one I choose for myself,” Penelope continued.
The desperation in her eyes was almost too painful to witness, and I knew then that I would never leave her again. I had known the moment I saw her, soaking from the storm she had walked through to reach me.
I would not be like him. I would not abandon Penelope when she needed me most.
“Let us choose each other, Melantho,” she whispered. “Please.”
“If you want me at your side, I will be there.”
She let out a sigh of pure relief, and we smiled at each other, our hope sparking so dizzyingly bright. In that moment, I allowed myself to imagine it—Penelope and me living together in the palace, happy and old, with Telemachus ruling as king. It felt more like a dream than a future, yet still I clung to the vision with a desperate kind of hope. Perhaps this too was what it meant to love someone—a willingness to leap into the dark, ready to fly or fall, so long as you did so by their side.
Penelope kissed me then, and my body melted into the familiarity of hers, my hands tracing every inch of her, all those curves and dips that had tortured my memory over the past four summers.
“You are perfect,” I whispered.
She smiled against my lips. “I am yours.”
44
If someone asked me for the definition of peace, I would say it was theseasons that followed my return to the palace, a time so golden in my mind, it is as if the memories are encased in sunlight.
There was still the threat of the empty throne, of course. But even that could not darken my days. Rather, it served as a reminder to seize each moment, to wring out every droplet of happiness I could for as long as the Fates allowed me.
