It was the truth, but for some reason, it tasted like a lie beneath Clytemnestra’s glare.
“My mother wants to see you,” she said.
“The…thequeen? Why?”
Her smile widened. “Come with me, and you will find out, slave.”
Dread sat like a coiled snake in the pit of my stomach.
I tried to ignore it as I followed Clytemnestra through the halls. She strode with a cool confidence, her legs eating up the distance with ease. I had to scurry to keep up with her, afraid of how she might react if I fell behind.
The passageway eventually opened out into a lofty room. The space here was simple, the only furniture an ornate wooden chair and a richly woven rug set a few feet before it. The walls were bright with color, depicting men on horseback, spears aloft as they chased a giant gray wolf. The scene progressed across all four walls; on the farthest and final one, the wolf had been caught, a spear protruding from its chest, blood spurting in violent splashes of crimson.
I shivered beside Clytemnestra.
“Kneel,” she said flatly. I moved to lower myself onto the rug, but she grabbed my shoulder. “Not there.”
She motioned to the stone floor, and I obeyed, the rough surface biting into my knees.
“Eyes on the ground.”
I did as I was told, fear and confusion curdling inside me.
What could the queen want fromme?
Was I in trouble?
Where was Penelope?
Footsteps sounded a moment later; smooth and unhurried, they whispered into the room like an evening breeze. I fought the urge to look up, focusing instead on the pale stone floor, memorizing each scuff.
Be brave.
“Is this the girl?” a voice came, soft yet strong.
“Yes, Mother,” Clytemnestra replied from behind me.
“Good.” A pause. “Fetch my niece.”
More feet sounded, and I felt a droplet of sweat skate from my temple down my nose. I watched it splash onto the floor as I repeatedClytemnestra’s command, falling into rhythm with my thrumming heartbeat—Eyes on the ground. Eyes on the ground. Eyes on the ground.
“There you are.” That voice spoke again. “Would you like to explain to us why we are here, Penelope?”
Penelope.My gaze snapped up, colliding with hers instantly. I felt an immediate rush of relief at the sight of her, but then I noticed how pale she looked, her mouth pressed into a small, thin line.
“Penelope?” the voice prompted again, and I glanced at the woman standing before me. Leda, wife of Tyndareus and queen of Sparta.
She was as beautiful as all the rumors claimed her to be, dark hair unbound, skin bronzed, body full and strong. Her face was plump, nymphlike features seeming out of place on a woman who carried herself like a warrior. She reminded me of the roses in the palace garden—a beauty that could make you bleed.
“I do not know, aunt,” Penelope finally replied.
“No?” Leda looked displeased. “What if I told you it was to do with your little trip yesterday?”
Something in Penelope’s face shifted, but she replied without missing a beat, “Around the palace grounds? Oh yes, I wanted Melantho to show me the flowers. Her father is the royal gardener here.”
I was surprised by how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. She did not even hesitate.
Leda’s smile was cold. “I see, And what of your trip to the river?”
