“Then do not. What’s done is done, Penelope. It is in the past now. We can leave it there.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her lovely, striking face hollowed out by pain.
“It meant nothing,” I whispered. “You must know that.”
I reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away, eyes lowered.
Since the moment I had met her, all that time ago, Penelope had never once recoiled from my touch.
The pain in my chest was so visceral I thought my heart mighthave actually shattered.
Tears blurred my vision, but my voice was surprisingly steady as I said, “Fine. Hate me if you must. It is a worthy trade for your safety and Telemachus’s life.”
Penelope said nothing as I rose to my feet and walked toward the door.
At the threshold, I glanced over my shoulder. Penelope had not moved an inch, hands folded neatly, spine stiff, bathed in sunshine so bright it seemed to mock her misery.
I turned and left her alone with my betrayal.
53
My bed felt horribly empty without the warmth of Penelope beside me.
All night, I wrestled with the urge to go to her, to take her in my arms and beg for her forgiveness. A few times, my desperation almost won out, but then I remembered the way she had withdrawn from my touch. Fromme.
So I stayed away.
Now it was somehow morning again, though I was certain I had not slept. Sunlight burned behind my closed lids, forcing me to pull my sheets over my head, burying myself deeper in the cocoon I had made. Around me, I heard the handmaids buzzing about their usual business. Gradually our chamber quietened, and I let out a sigh of relief when I was finally left alone.
“Melantho, are you all right?” came Autonoë’s voice.
I pretended to be asleep, hoping she would leave. Instead, I felt the bed dip as she sat down.
“You can talk to me if you need to,” she said after a time.
“I’m fine. I just don’t feel well,” I muttered.
“I spoke with Eurycleia.”
I peered out from my sheets, squinting against the light. “So?”
“She told me she saw you…leaving Eurymachus’s chamber yesterday morning.”
Hot shame pooled inside me, hardening quickly into somethingsharper, uglier. “And what if I did? Have you come to judge too?”
Autonoë’s eyes softened. “Of course not, Melantho.”
“Then why are you here?”
She reached out and took my hand in hers, her palm warm and dry. “How long have we known each other?”
I frowned at the sudden change in topic. “A long time.”
“Twenty summers. And never once have you asked about these.” She motioned to her scarred face with her free hand.
“I…never thought it was my place,” I said carefully.
“You must have wondered how I got them though.”
