Odysseus’s personal quarters were as I remembered them from the night I’d arrived at the palace, an eclectic mix of gentle chaos. Outside, I could hear the waves whispering against the rocky cliffside, scrubbing the air clean with their salty freshness.
I found Odysseus sitting cross-legged on the floor, one of the hunting dogs sprawled beside him. An upturned stool was set on his lap, made of a rich, dark wood. The prince was bent over one of the three legs, a knife poised in his hand as he etched intricate markings into its surface. Concentration tied his features together, making them seem heavier, sterner. But when he saw me approach, his face quickly lifted into one of his familiar smiles.
Odysseus had a lot of different smiles, I had come to realize. I imagined him wielding them like weapons, having mastered the art of knowing which to unsheathe at an opportune moment.
“Melantho. Thank you for coming.”
I was surprised he remembered my name.
“Please, take a seat.”
He motioned to the floor beside him.
Warily, I lowered myself onto the thick rug, careful to avoid the wood shavings scattered around us.
“If you could bear with me a moment, I just need to…” Odysseus trailed off as he returned to his carving. He handled his knife with such delicate precision, I found I could not look away, mesmerized by the slice of metal against wood. Eventually, he sat back to examine his work, closing one eye, then the other. “There. That’ll do. What do you think?”
“I don’t know anything about wood carving, Master Odysseus,” I said blandly, refusing to stoke his arrogance like all the other sycophants he owned.
Odysseus only smiled in response, shifting the stool around so the next leg was now poised before him.
“My father taught me to carve and sculpt,” he said as he sank his blade into the wood. “I thought it some kind of magic, how he could pull such beauty from a coarse lump of wood or cold slab of stone. Those are some of the earliest memories I have: watching him work. Now I find the act rather nostalgic.”
My thoughts flickered to my childhood, like a flame being thrown into the dark, forgotten corners of my mind. I saw my mother’s hands kneading dough, the methodical motion of her knuckles, fingers, and palms—strong and soothing. I ached to reach out and hold those hands in mine.
Odysseus continued speaking, but I had no interest in listening to his sentimental ramblings. He always spoke too much. I believed it was because he loved to monopolize people’s attention. He was like a dull jewel that could only sparkle when others shone their light upon him.
I felt a warm huff against my skin and instinctively stiffened. A cold panic seeped through my veins as Odysseus’s dog rested his head in my lap. For a sickening moment, I found myself back on that dark mountain path, fleeing for my life as those baying hounds closed in all around me…
“Argos likes you,” Odysseus observed. “There’s no need to beafraid. He’s a soft old thing.”
I forced my muscles to unclench. “I’m not afraid.”
The prince smiled, then adjusted the stool a little in his lap. As he did so, I noticed a thick scar streaking across his lower thigh, starkly pale against his bronzed skin.
“A hunting accident,” he said, following my gaze. “Back when I was young and foolish.”
I glanced away wordlessly, wondering how long it would be before he asked me to undress. Castor never bothered with all this pointless small talk.
“Tell me, Melantho,” he continued, shifting to face me. “How are you finding Ithaca?”
All prisons are the same.Melanthius’s voice chilled my thoughts.
“It’s…calmer here,” I admitted, staring down at Argos’s shaggy head. I wished the dog would leave me alone.
“Do you miss Sparta at all?”
“No.” The word came out harsher than I intended.
Odysseus watched me for a moment. His gaze had a prying edge, as if he were trying to slither his way between my words to the raw truth beneath.
“It would be natural if you did, you know. I would not take offense. Sparta was your home for a long time and you—”
“Sparta was never my home.”
Odysseus went very still then, his blade poised over the wood.
“You should not interrupt me, Melantho,” he said. His anger was strange. It held no sharpness; rather it was smooth and heavy, like a stone at the bottom of a lake. Steady. Fixed.
