“I know you are hurting, but you do not have to be cruel,” I whispered.
“This whole fucking world is cruel, sister.”
“Butyouaren’t, Melanthius. This isn’t who you are.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
I held his gaze for a long moment, until the emptiness in his eyes gave way, revealing the sadness beneath. Such desperate, depthless sadness. I felt it clutching at my heart, mingling with my own, all those taunting unanswered questions that rotted within us both. We would never know what became of our mother or Callias or Melitta or the baby…
That was the curse of being a slave, not being deemed worthy enough to be given answers, doomed to spend our lives with the weight of the unknown. That suffocating, shapeless grief.
There was no coming to terms with it, I knew. All we could do was endure it.
With a sigh, I placed my hand over Melanthius’s again. His fingers twitched at my touch. Then, a moment later, tears filled his eyes, softening them.
“The baby will’ve been born by now,” he murmured thickly.
The words cleaved my heart in two.
“I know.”
I squeezed his fingers, watching the moon-silvered tears spill down his cheeks as we sat for a moment, awash with our shared grief.
Melanthius then abruptly pulled away, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. They were still red and swollen as he flashed me a stiff smile. “Looks like I’ve had too much to drink again, eh?”
“You’re allowed to cry, Melanthius.”
He rose to his feet. “I just need to walk it off. That’s all.”
“It’s the middle of the night. You should sleep.”
“Sleep.” He laughed emptily at the word, then strode to the door.
At the stone threshold, he froze, his tall figure engulfed in darkness.
He did not turn as he whispered into the shadows, “Do you think they’re a boy or a girl?”
I stared at his back. If only I knew what to say in that moment, which words would soothe the open wound that festered in his soul.
But what could ever suffice?
“I wish I knew, brother,” I said.
He nodded slowly, and I cringed at the uselessness of my answer.
“Melanthius, wait—”
He was gone before I could say more.
24
Odysseus found me the next morning.
I had been horribly groggy as I helped prepare breakfast, my entire body protesting its lack of sleep. When I saw the prince of Ithaca approach me in the kitchens, I wondered if I was still dreaming.
“Hello, Melantho,” he said. He wore his familiar grin, but it seemed thinner today, as if he were struggling to muster his usual warmth. “I hope you are well?”
I gave a vague nod. “Penelope?”
