“It’s late,” I said as I approached my brother.
His head was resting on the wooden surface, and he did not bother lifting it up as he mumbled, “Very observant, sister.”
“Where did you get that?” I motioned to the jug set beside him.
He looked up, moonlight catching in his dark, glazed eyes, making them appear even colder than usual.
“I borrowed it.” His words were sluggish and stumbling. “What? Don’t give me that face. I’m celebrating. Come on. Join me, sister!”
He held out the jug, and I took it gingerly. It was almost empty. I glanced around us, wondering what would happen if we were caughtwith stolen wine. I had not seen any slaves whipped since arriving here, but that did not mean our masters were not capable of such a thing.
I sat down on the stool beside him. “Shouldn’t you be tending the goats?”
“It’s my night off.”
“Is that what you’re celebrating?”
Melanthius gave a forced laugh. “You not heard? The royal baby has been born! Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“I…suppose,” I hedged, my fingers playing against the painted neck of the jug.
“I’m sure Odysseus is happy. Getting to meet his child for the first time, getting to hold him in his arms.” Melanthius stared at me with dead eyes. “Wonder what that feels like.”
“Melanthius…”
He snatched the jug from my hands and downed the contents.
“What, Mel? Go on. What’d you have to say to me?”
My throat felt tight, my eyes hot. I hated seeing him like this. It was as if the grief had eaten him from the inside, carving out all the remnants of the brother I had once loved so dearly, leaving nothing but this cold husk of a person.
“I know this must be hard for you,” I whispered.
Melanthius bared his crimson-etched teeth into a sneer. “Hard? Why’d it behardfor me?”
“Because it’s not fair—”
“Not fair? No, no, no. This.” He slammed his hand on the tabletop. “This is exactly how it all works.”
“Shh, please. Someone might hear you.”
He spoke louder as if to spite me. “They get to haveeverything, and we’re left withnothing. That’s how it always is. How it always will be.”
“We do not have nothing, Melanthius,” I said, placing my hand over his. “We have each other.”
“And what of Callias? What’s he got now?” His fingers tightenedaround mine. “What of Melitta? What of my child?”
“Stop it, Melanthius. That hurts—”
“What do they have, sister? Do you know? Do you even care?” His words jabbed at old, familiar wounds.
“Of course I care,” I snapped.
“Do you?” he spat with enough severity to make my heartbeat quicken.
“Just because I do not wear my suffering as openly as you does not make it any less valid.”
Finally, Melanthius loosened his biting grip, and I snatched my hand away.
