The numbness was so consuming, it took me a moment to realize it was not the same one we had shared as children.
“I was moved from my usual quarters on account of the suitors,” Penelope explained. “I prefer this anyway. That other chamber was unnecessarily large.”
This space was indeed far smaller, comprising only one room. A bed was positioned in the far corner, stacked with intricately woven blankets. Opposite was a loom where threads hung suspended like strands of unfinished time. On a narrow table, a few jugs were arranged in a neat line alongside a bowl for washing. Everything was impeccably tidy, just as I remembered Penelope’s chamber had always been.
Her eyes followed mine as I surveyed the space, our silence stretching thin.
I pretended not to watch as Penelope removed the scarf from around her head, slipped off her sandals, and padded across the rug to the unlit hearth. A single chair was positioned beside it, draped in a dark animal hide and inlaid with silver detailing.
“Would you like to sit here?” she offered. “I can take a look at your hand.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
Penelope nodded, then stared into the empty hearth as if her gazealone could summon a fire within it. Silence settled again, sharpening the awkwardness between us. Once, there had not seemed enough time in existence to fit all the words I wanted to share with Penelope.
“You can leave if you wish,” she said. “I am not forcing you to stay.”
Go. Leave and never look back, a voice inside my head urged.Remember who she is. Remember what she did to you.But my body refused to comply, as if my feet were rooted to the spot.
When I looked up, Penelope was watching me again with those eyes of hers that always saw too much.
“Would you like to talk about…what happened?” she asked quietly.
Was she referring to Agamemnon or us?
It did not matter. My answer would still be the same.
“No.”
She did not press further. It was something I had once admired about her, how Penelope never forced truths from another’s lips. Instead, she would let them settle and soften, then gently pry those words out when the time was right.
But I would not let her slip beneath my defenses this time.
You cannot trust her kind, my brother hissed from the past.
So why are you still standing here?
The familiar glug of liquid being poured caught my attention. A moment later, Penelope was handing me a cup.
“What are you doing?”
“Offering you wine,” she said as if it really were that simple.
“Why?”
“Because you look like you need it.”
She waved the dark liquid toward me again, and as I reached out to take it, I realized my hands were trembling. Penelope noticed, too, and I hated the way it made her face soften.
“The wine will help,” she murmured. Then, at my hesitation, she added, “Don’t worry—I did not spit in it.”
My eyes flashed to hers. “W-what?”
A small smile brushed her lips. “I saw you and your friend. Before the suitors’ banquet.”
I said nothing, waiting for the scolding, the judgment. But none came. Instead, Penelope turned and busied herself with lighting the fire.
Unsure what else to do, I decided to drink. When I treated myself to Castor’s wine, it always tasted like rebellion, danger and excitement and fury all swirled together on my tongue. There was not the same thrill when it was given to me out of pity. Instead, Penelope’s wine had a mild tang and seemed substantially more watered down than the stuff the men drank. Still, I gulped it down eagerly, willing it to drown all thoughts of Agamemnon.
