“I am going to bandage it.” Before giving me a chance to refuse, Penelope retrieved a clean piece of cloth and began winding it around my palm.
Once she had secured the bandage in place, I murmured a dull, “Thanks.”
I went to pull my hand away, but Penelope’s fingers tightened around mine.
“He should not get away with what he did to you, Melantho,” she whispered.
I sighed. “But he will.”
“My uncle would be furious if he knew—”
“That someone else tried to touch his property?” I huffed a bitter laugh.
“Perhaps if I spoke with him—”
“Penelope.” I tugged my hand free. “Just…don’t. Please. There is no point.”
She gave a shallow nod, biting down on her lip as if having to forcibly contain the words threatening to spill out.
“Make sure this doesn’t get infected,” she said instead, motioning to my palm. “You should see if they have any yarrow in the kitchens.The herb is good for healing. Or perhaps you could ask your father?”
“Perhaps,” I muttered, not willing to admit I never spoke to the man anymore.Thatwas not a conversation I wanted to get into tonight. Or any night for that matter.
“You will need to keep an eye on it,” she warned.
I shrugged, her concern grating on me. “I’ll be fine.”
“It could get infected without proper care. It’s a nasty wound and—”
“I’ve survived worse,” I shot back. “You of all people should know.”
Penelope went deathly still, and I saw the memories rushing through her, the same ones that haunted my dreams night after night. I couldfeelthem playing out in her mind—my face pressed against the table, the sound of my sobs racking my body, the sheer agony as those tongues of fire devoured my bare back…
I stood abruptly. “I need to leave.”
Penelope rose with me, though her entire demeanor had changed, growing stiff and withdrawn, as if her thoughts had collapsed in on themselves.
“You do not have to,” she managed to say quietly.
But I did.
I had to get away from her, from the insufferable pity in her eyes, from the memories strangling me like Agamemnon’s hand at my throat.
“Iwantto leave,” I said.
Penelope just nodded, unable to look at me. I hated knowing what version of myself she was seeing in her mind—that weeping, terrified child, covered in her own piss and blood. Was that what she always saw when she looked at me?
I made for the door, but as I moved past Penelope, she grabbed my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. We stood motionless, facing in opposite directions yet so close our shoulders brushed.
I stared at the wall ahead, willing my pulse to settle, forcing those memories down and down and down…
“Melantho.”
How I loathed the sound of my name on her lips and all the unwanted feelings it stirred within me. But I reminded myself this effect of hers was only superficial, like a breeze may stir dead, fallen leaves, making them shift and swirl but never able to bring back to life what has already perished.
And whatever existed between us was long dead.
“I should never have left,” she whispered.
