Penelope smiled faintly. “Can I tell you a secret?”
I straightened. “Of course.”
“The thought of doing it alone terrifies me.”
Slowly, I walked toward her. “You won’t be alone.”
She glanced over at me, a ray of hope dancing in her eyes, likesunlight piercing through a storm.
“I’ll be here,” I continued. “If…if you would like that, I mean. If you would want me as your handmaid… I would understand if you wouldn’t—”
Her smile was soft, almost sad. “Is that whatyouwant, Melantho?”
I felt Odysseus’s heavy hand on my shoulder as he dangled my freedom before me.
“Yes.”
She swallowed. “Even…after everything?”
The question left a space for other, unspoken ones to arise, flanked by wounded memories. The lashes on my back…Callias’s screams…Melitta’s sobs…and my own hateful words ringing in my ears:This is all your fault.
I hate you.
If only I had hated Penelope. It would have been far easier. Hate was a simple emotion—ugly and clean. I knew the shape of it well. But I could no longer fit her into that mold, nor could I fasten blame to her as easily as I once had.
No, I didn’t hate her. I didn’t knowwhatI felt for her. She was the princess who had abandoned me after I had been lashed within an inch of my life. The princess who had set guards upon me, stealing my chance of freedom, and who had watched silently as my friends were maimed. The same princess whose family had sold my mother like an animal.
And yet she was also the girl who was my first true friend. The girl who had saved me from Agamemnon’s wrath and Tyndareus’s punishment. The girl who had nearly shattered my heart when I’d thought I would lose her to the Underworld. The girl who had been fighting for my freedom, fighting forme, even when I had continually pushed her away.
There was too much between us, too many threads from the past binding us together while simultaneously pulling us apart. Perhaps I would never be able to let Penelope go, but neither could I let her in,not fully.
Yet I knew one truth for certain—Penelope was my path to freedom.
So I nodded and said to the future queen of Ithaca, “Yes. Even after everything.”
25
Things were awkward between us at first.
Penelope and I were perfectly polite to each other, of course. But there was a stiffness to our interactions, a hesitancy that had us fumbling for words.
I supposed this was to be expected after all that had come between us.
We spent every day together, learning to navigate our new dynamic as well as the uncharted waters of motherhood. It was a blur of sleepless nights and constant bawling. I was surprised at how muchnoisea human as tiny as Telemachus could make. Thankfully, we were not alone on this voyage, as Penelope’s two other handmaids were also there to assist.
There was Hippodamia, the girl I had met the day I arrived in Ithaca, whose presence was as bright and golden as her hair. She was all laughter and smiles, and it unnerved me—how someone like us could be filled with such easy affability.
The other handmaid was a girl called Autonoë, who I guessed to be a similar age to me. She was tall and willowy with dusky skin and long, dark hair. Her face was delicate and ethereal, almost nymphlike, yet it had been claimed by a brutal scar, the thick, puckered skin running diagonally from eyebrow to jaw. I had tried not to stare when we were first introduced, though the sight of it made my ownscars itch horribly.
Autonoë had been with us the night we’d sung outside Penelope and Odysseus’s marital chamber. I remembered her voice most of all, its lovely, husky cadence. She was always singing under her breath, and though I never admitted it, I loved listening to her.
Hippodamia and Autonoë had both served as the late queen’s handmaids, and they went about their tasks with ease—fetching Penelope’s meals, preparing her baths, tidying her chambers—while I fumbled after them, always a step behind. Strangely, Penelope did not seem to enjoy this attentiveness, adamant she could do most things herself. Often, she flat out refused our aid, leaving us to sit awkwardly aside while she dressed herself. She was just as steadfast about tending to Telemachus, refusing a wet nurse to feed him even when Eurycleia insisted. I wondered what could have inspired such fierceness in her, but I did not ask.
In truth, I did not say much at all.
In the shadow of Hippodamia’s and Autonoë’s bright personalities, I felt myself retreating. I found it almost unbearable each time they offered their quick smiles and sweet words, the feel of them sticking uncomfortably to my skin. How was it so effortless for them to give kindness so readily? I watched as they chattered endlessly with Penelope, giggling like sisters, growing closer with each passing day. Their warmth was a beautiful thing, but it only left me cold.
I didn’t know how to be like them, how to remove this armor I had worn for so long.
