“My property?”
“That’s what I am now, aren’t I?”
Penelope stared at me for a long moment, her face unreadable. The only hint of emotion she let slip was her hands clutching tightly at her gown.
“I was going to tell you today before the ceremony. I was going to explain everything. That was why I wanted to speak with you,” she said quietly. “I did this to protect you. You and your family. Don’t you see? In Ithaca, I will be a queen. I will have the power to make sure you can live a safe life. Don’t you want that?”
“Iwantedto befree.”
“Free?” She shook her head. “Melantho, there is no freedom for us. Not for women. We are always owned by someone: a master or a husband or a father. The world won’t let us exist otherwise. We are always possessions to them.”
“There is no ‘we,’” I spat, striding toward her. “Don’t you dare try to compare us. You knownothingof what I’ve been through.”
“I was not—”
“You’re just like the rest of them. You stood there and did nothing. He branded them, and you just watched—”
“I did what I had to do to save you.”
“Why do you get to decide which of us is saved?” I was shouting now, jabbing my finger into her face. “This is all your fault. All of it!”
“So your ridiculous plan was my fault too then?” Anger stole into Penelope’s voice, and I found a vicious kind of satisfaction in hearing it.
“It wasn’t ridiculous.”
“Of course it was, Melantho. How could you have ever believed otherwise? If the guards hadn’t caught you, you would have been found by wolves or hunters or slave traders or gods know what else. Did you think for a second about that? Did you think at all? Did it even cross your mind that you could have—” The words caught in Penelope’s throat, and she swallowed. “You could have died, Melantho.”
“Of course I knew that,” I seethed. “Did it crossyourmind that maybe I would have preferred that?”
Penelope went very still then, her anger flickering out immediately. She lowered her gaze.
“I just want to help you, Melantho.”
“What about whatIwant?”
My question hung between us, hardening like ice, and I watched as a rare shyness crept over Penelope. She addressed her next words to the floor.
“I suppose I thought…you might have wanted this. To come to Ithaca…with me.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
A bright flash of pain carved across Penelope’s face, but she quickly composed herself.
“I am afraid it has already been decided,” she said, shifting back into that steady, empty tone. “My uncle has agreed to gift you to Odysseus and me. We cannot—”
“I am not a gift.”
She sighed, the sound grating irritably over my skin. “Melantho,I did not—”
“I am a person!” I screamed at her over and over, the words like a piece of my heart being ripped out of me, bloody and raw and beating. I realized I was crying, hot tears spilling down my cheeks.
“I know,” Penelope whispered. She sounded wounded, and I hated her for being hurt by my pain. It did not belong to her. She did not deserve it.
“No, you don’t. You don’t understand. You never will.” I furiously dashed my tears away. “You will always see me like the rest of your kind do.”
“I have always seen you as my friend, Melantho.”
“Your friend?” I scoffed. “Friends do not own each other, Penelope. You would know that if you had any real ones.”
