She huffed a warm laugh against my hair. “The gods are hardly paradigms of marital fidelity.”
“But do you ever wonder if they’d care that I…that I’m not a man? Would they think this…wrong?”
I felt Penelope’s hand still against my back.
“Doyouthink this is wrong?”
“No.” I pressed my lips against her neck to seal the words between us. “Never.”
Her fingers continued their lazy journey along my spine. “That is all that matters to me.”
I shifted to look at her once again. “But why are there no stories like this, like ours? Why do people only sing of love between men or men with women?”
“Becausemenare the ones telling those stories, and they cannot fathom something existing without their involvement, especially not sex.” Penelope looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing, “I do not believe men would view love between women as wrong. They simply would not think of it at all. It would be insignificant to them, becauseweare insignificant to them—unless we have a man to legitimize our worth.” There was no anger in her voice, just a worn resignation that chafed against each word. “In Sparta, women sometimes took female lovers.”
I gaped at her. “I never knew that.”
Penelope nodded. “Even with all the freedom Spartan women were awarded, the men still didn’t want others knowing about it.”
“Just like no one will ever know about us,” I murmured.
Penelope cupped my face. “It is safer that way, Melantho.”
“I know that. But sometimes I just…I cannotstandit, to think you will always be known as his.”
Penelope’s hand fell away, voice softening. “But why should that matter?”
“Why should thatmatter?” I frowned, sitting up. “Doesn’t it bother you? People will sing of Odysseus for generations, and you will alwaysbe his dutiful Penelope, his obedient wife. That’s the version of you the world will remember. You’ll be immortalized as his property, and I…” My voice caught as the realization closed over me. “I’ll be no one in your story. I’ll be nothing.”
I glanced away, ashamed of my jealousy, of how poisonous it could become. We spoke so rarely of Odysseus, and it felt like a betrayal of mine, to stain this sacred time between us with his name.
Penelope brought her fingers to my chin, gently tipping my face back to hers as she whispered, “Let history have its lies if it means we can have each other.”
I let her guide me back down to rest my head upon her chest. We stayed like that for a time, and I counted the seconds passing in the drowsy rise and fall of her stomach.
“It will be morning soon,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I should go.”
“You should.”
Neither of us moved. Instead, we held each other a little tighter, as if in doing so we could chase away those first sips of daylight draining the darkened sky.
45
Three summers passed.
Three blissful summers.
It was more happiness than most experience in a lifetime, yet still, I was greedy for more.
The Fates, it seemed, had other plans.
It began one morning during the seventh year since the fall of Troy.
Penelope was summoned to the throne room, and I accompanied her as I usually did. As we walked the familiar halls, our fingers brushed, my skin a whispered secret against hers. She smiled sidelong at me, gaze heating.
