“Only a little,” I lied.
“You made me laugh. I had not laughed since the night my mother died.”
She let the weight of her confession hang between us. In the stillness, I thought of all the times she had laughed that summer. I had believed myself foolish back then for wondering if Penelope only laughed like that for me. But perhaps it was not such a ridiculous thought after all.
Something twisted inside me, like sun-warmed vines constricting around my heart.
“I lied that day, to my aunt.” She spoke the same way she had cleaned my wounds the night before—so carefully gentle, so desperate not to inflict any further pain. “You were my friend, Melantho. Perhaps not a friend I deserved but one that I cherished all the same. I only wish I had treated you better.”
We stared at each other, the silence between us like a great, yawning precipice we teetered at the edge of. I felt myself leaning closer.
“Melantho, I must tell you something.”
“What?” I gulped out the word, suddenly breathless.
“I—”
The door burst open then, and the queen’s handmaids swarmed inside like an angry cloud of bees, shattering the moment.
“Mistress, I apologize for the intrusion, but Queen Leda isinsisting!”
“The ceremony begins imminently, mistress!”
“We must ensure you are perfect for Master Odysseus, mistress!”
I stared at Penelope’s face, watching that vulnerability recedelike waves from a riverbank, leaving the cool stones beneath. It was Penelope the princess staring at me now, her mask firmly back in place.
“Very well,” she said to them before turning back to me. “May we speak tomorrow? Before the gift-giving ceremony.”
I nodded numbly. “Tomorrow.”
“It must be before the gift giving,” Penelope clarified as the handmaids bustled around her, poking and prodding. “I shall see you then. Goodbye, Melantho.”
“Goodbye, Penelope.”
15
The celebrations began with a grand procession through the streetsof Sparta.
We slaves were not permitted to join these festivities, of course. We were to prepare the feast that awaited the guests when they returned, flush-faced and full of merriment.
My afternoon was spent carrying plates up and down the long tables, doing everything in my power to avoid Agamemnon. The food smelled divine: roasted wild boar, spiced lamb, salted fish, thick stews wafting notes of garlic and leek. My stomach gnawed at me as I watched the guests delight in every mouthful. Tyndareus had clearly wanted to flaunt his wealth; there were even some dishes I had never seen before—long, snakelike fish that glistened on the plate and strange, rubbery creatures with eight wiggling legs.
Throughout the feast, I found my eyes regularly drifting to Penelope. She sat with the women on the opposite side of the room to the men. She and Helen had remained covered, as was customary, lifting tiny morsels of food beneath their veils as they spoke in hushed tones. Meanwhile, the men were as raucous as ever, Menelaus and Odysseus reigning proudly over them—the victors of the day. It was clear they both relished the attention.
At the end of the feasting, the two brides were brought forward by Tyndareus to their waiting husbands. One at a time, the king unveiledthem while the guests roared their approval.
Penelope was the first, and when that thin material rippled away, I saw a flash of fear spark across her face, making my fingers tighten around the plate I carried.
The prince of Ithaca’s grin was as radiant as the torches burning behind him.He took Penelope’s hands, and she managed a smile, but all I could think was how small her palms looked in his.
Then it was Helen’s turn, and the room fell still, breaths held, eyes widening.
An audible gasp swept through the crowd as we beheld the famed princess of Sparta. She was like sunlight incarnate, shining and radiant, brightening the room with her golden presence. Helen’s hair was the palest shade I had ever seen, framing two honey-brown eyes that glowed, quietly assessing her new husband. Menelaus took her hand tentatively, as if afraid she might shatter beneath his large, clumsy fingers. Helen seemed to like his awkward gentleness, and she smiled, a slow, devastatingly beautiful smile that had her audience erupting into cheers.
After the unveiling, the music began, and tables were pushed aside so people could dance. I shrank to the shadowy corners of the room, watching the guests as they laughed and twirled and drank. Their happiness felt so strange to me, sparkling and distant, like stars swirling in the night sky. Unreachable.
Despite Helen’s captivating presence, my eyes followed Penelope. She was sitting to one side, chatting quietly with her new husband. But then Odysseus rose and led her into the crowd of blurring bodies. Penelope smiled as Odysseus began spinning her around the room, faster and faster until I heard her laugh echoing through all the hollow spaces inside me.
