Penelope regarded the crumpled plant in my hand, brows slightly raised. “I did.”
“Why?”
“For your wound,” she replied simply. But it was never that simple. Not between us.
“Well, I didn’t ask you for it.”
Penelope’s head tilted to the side as she studied me. I hated it when she looked at me like that, as if she were stripping my thoughts bare.
“I don’t need it,” I continued, motioning to her with a petulant wave of my hand. “I don’t need anything from you.”
“Very well.”
Slowly, Penelope approached me. The gold bands on her wrist tinkled as she reached out to take the yarrow. I refused to meet her gaze as I dumped it into her palm, yet I could still smell her, that decadent perfume clogging my nose, full of rich spices I didn’t know the names of.
She retreated, her gown whispering around her feet as if secrets were trapped within its folds. She really did look like a goddess, or the closest thing to divinity I had ever seen. I longed to move closer, to smell that rich, spiced scent again.
“Is that all?” she asked as she set the yarrow down on the far table.
Leave, Melantho, I ordered myself.You’ve done what you came to do. Now go.
“You cut your hair,” I blurted out.
Penelope absently brushed the shorn ends. “It is customary for brides to offer their hair to Artemis on the eve of their wedding. It marks the end of childhood.”
“Oh.”
She stared at me, lips slightly parted as if she wanted to say more. But then she turned away, silently assessing the brooches scattered on the table before her. She picked one up, turning it over in her hands before setting it down for another.
“Why are the handmaids outside?” I heard myself ask.
Penelope turned back to me with a small gold brooch in her hands and began fastening it at her shoulder.
“Are they still upset about that? I already told them I can dress myself. I am not a child.”
I noted the slight tightness in her tone.
“Well, I would be able to, if only I could…”
She trailed off, fumbling with the brooch.
I had watched Penelope’s hands weave threads with such unearthly steadiness, never once faltering. But now she was struggling to fasten a simple clasp.
The realization hit me abruptly—she wasnervous.
“Stop, stop. You’re going to break it.” I sighed irritably, then strode toward her. “Give it here.”
Penelope blinked at me, then carefully placed the brooch in my uninjured palm. I could feel her eyes on my face, searching for answers to unspoken questions. I ignored her, focusing instead on securing the brooch at her shoulder, a simple task I had done a thousand times before for Castor.
So why did this feel so different?
When the clasp slotted into place, I finally met her gaze. The seconds passed, thick and heavy, thudding between us like a heartbeat. Then Penelope glanced down at herself.
“This one isn’t right. The other one would be better—”
“Penelope. It’s fine. You look…” I swallowed. “Fine.”
“I lookfine?” There was a shade of amusement in her voice. “Well, isn’t Odysseus lucky then.”
