“She went straight to her chamber again. Didn’t say a word,”Actoris muttered, nodding toward Penelope’s closed door.
“She’s been struggling,” Hippodamia murmured. “Ever since Telemachus left.”
“I know.”
Three moon cycles before, Penelope had encouraged Telemachus to travel to Sparta. She had disguised the trip as a diplomatic venture, a strengthening of alliances and an opportunity for Telemachus to search for news of his father. In truth, she simply wanted her son as far away as possible from the suitors and their schemes.
But Telemachus’s absence seemed to have only encouraged their plotting. I had often spied Eurymachus whispering in the other men’s ears, those quiet murmurs far more sinister than any of their riotous revelry.
“What are you doing?” Skaris asked as I followed her to our chamber.
I frowned. “Going to bed. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re going topretendto sleep in your bed and then sneak out when you think we are all asleep,” Skaris threw back, a gleam of challenge in her eyes.
I stared at her. “W-what do you mean?”
She shook her head. “You just insult our intelligence now, my friend.”
“I…” Excuses withered on my tongue as I caught Hippodamia and Actoris sharing a smirk.
“Did youreallythink we didn’t know?” Actoris snorted.
“Who else knows?”
“Only us,” Hippodamia said, quick to reassure me. “You hide it well. We just know you better.”
I stared at them, waiting for the judgment, the disgust, the reminder of howfoolishPenelope and I were. But all that came was the heavy, comforting weight of Skaris’s hand on my shoulder.
“Go to her,” she said, nodding toward Penelope’s door. “She needs you.”
***
Penelope was awake when I entered her chamber.
She said nothing as I slipped into bed, her silence pressing into the darkness like a scream.
“Can’t sleep again?” I whispered.
Penelope stared at the ceiling, moonlight curving into two small scythes against the whites of her eyes.
“Have you taken your brew?” I prompted.
Penelope had recently created a concoction to aid her sleep, a mixture of poppy milk and other mysterious ingredients. It had started as an occasional solution for restless nights, but these days, she could not sleep without it. Her mind would not let her.
“I did,” she murmured, her voice laced with a tiredness no amount of sleep could ever cure.
“It’ll help soon,” I said with a lightness I did not feel.
Penelope said nothing. With every passing season, she had grown quieter, withdrawn further. The spark that had always burned so fiercely inside her had dimmed to a mere flicker, and I lived in constant fear of the day it would go out completely.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whispered. “Please.”
She inhaled, and I could feel how stiff she was, her body a knot of tight muscles I desperately longed to soothe.
“There was another girl with bruises,” she murmured. “Just like the others.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the guilt-stained anger curdle in my veins.
