But you did.
I wanted to shout these words at her, to scream and cry and let her know just what her abandonment had done to me. But something had dampened that rage inside me, like rain upon firewood, no longer able to catch light.
So instead, I stared at the wall and said nothing at all.
I heard Penelope swallow before continuing, “I thought I was protecting you by staying away. I was so afraid of you being hurt again…because of me.”
I kept my focus ahead, hating the knot thickening in my throat.
“I am sorry, Melantho.”
How long had I waited to hear those words from her?
A part of me ached to accept them, to reach out across the void between us, as if in doing so I could somehow reach through time and grasp a piece of the girl I had once been, allowing myself to glimpse what it had felt like when the world was warm and safe and kind.
But that world had been a lie. It had never existed; it never would. Not for me anyway.
And though Penelope’s apology had once been all I longed for, I knew now it was not enough, no matter how deeply she meant it or how much I wanted it to be. Those three words could not change what had happened, could not change what I was.
I sensed Penelope waiting for my reply, watching the thoughts battle across my face. I had never been able to mask my emotions, not like her.
“May I be excused now, mistress?” I asked flatly.
I felt Penelope go very still, as if my words had frozen inside her.
“You know you do not have to ask that, not with me.”
I tried to ignore how wounded she sounded as I continued staring at the wall. Waiting.
After a long pause, Penelope finally turned away.
“You may be excused,” she whispered into the shadows.
I nodded once and walked out of the room, forcing myself not to look back.
12
Tension choked the palace like a noose, pulling tighter by the second.
The previous day’s jubilant atmosphere had withered in the morning sun, leaving behind a dryness in the air, one that cracked and strained beneath the crumbling cordiality.
I stood in the entertaining hall, a jug of wine balanced in my arms, watching the suitors attempt awkward conversation. They were growing restless, the impending decision weighing heavily on their delicate egos. Only one would claim Helen’s hand today. Only one would be victorious. I glanced around at the sea of proud faces, wondering how many of these men had ever tasted defeat before. I doubted the bitter aftertaste would sit well with them.
Among the crowd, I spied Agamemnon and felt my insides grow cold. Shrinking farther into the shadows, I watched as the king of Mycenae strode across the room. As he drew closer, I noticed the slight limp he was so desperately trying to hide. I held my satisfaction tight inside me.
I did not regret my actions. I was glad I had made Agamemnon bleed, made him suffer the pain he so carelessly inflicted on my kind. That was worth any price.
I only prayed the wound would scar so whenever he looked at that slice of puckered, pale flesh, he might think of me—the slave he could not break.
Beside Agamemnon was a thickly built man who I assumed must be his brother, Menelaus. He had a shock of flaming hair, a more vibrant red than my own, and an easy smile that counterbalanced Agamemnon’s near-constant sneer.
My gaze then drifted to the dais where Tyndareus’s throne remained empty. He had not been seen all morning, and the suitors’ growing impatience was as oppressive as the heat sticking to the air.
I shifted my jug to my other hip, wishing someone would accept a cup of wine so I could empty some of its contents. But nobody was drinking today.
A bad sign.
“They are all armed,” Callias murmured to me, his face pinched with worry.
