Down the passageway, I could see the guards standing watch outside our sleeping quarters. They kept the men and women separated at night, with a guard positioned at either door. I had always found their presence reassuring, as if King Tyndareus wanted his slaves watched over, kept safe. But in that moment, the sight of them made my lungs feel tight.
“It was nice to meet you,” Penelope said. “Melantho.”
I smiled. “Penelope.”
Conscious of the guards now watching us, I quickly bowed. Penelope then nodded to one of them, and he dutifully unlocked the door.
The guard shoved me inside, and I was swallowed up by a hot, sweaty darkness, one that stuck immediately to my skin, weighing me down. The familiar stench of overcrowded bodies clogged my throat, and I almost gagged. I turned back to Penelope, her face like a last gulp of fresh air, one I wanted to hold on to as long as I could. Then the door slammed shut.
I picked my way through the slumbering bodies strewn across the floor, trying my best not to trip over the sprawling limbs.
“Melantho?” My mother’s voice guided me forward. She was inthe far corner, sitting upright with her back against the wall. It was too dark to make out her features, but her voice was alert, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She reached for my hands, her fingers damp and shaking.
“Are you…sure? You can tell me…if you’re not.” She sounded strange, her words stiff.
“I’m fine, Mama. I promise.”
We settled into our usual position, my mother curled around me as I tucked myself into her warm chest.
“Did he hurt you?” she whispered against the shell of my ear.
“Who?”
“The king’s brother.”
I thought about the strange way Icarius had stared at me, my insides twisting.
“No, Mama.”
“You can tell me if he did.”
“He didn’t.”
She held me tighter. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault, Melantho. You must know that. It’s important.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I kept quiet.
My mother began stroking my hair then, whispering apologies into my ear. I did not understand her sadness, nor did I like the feel of it in my chest, heavy as a stone. So I pretended to be asleep as her warm tears dripped against my cheek, her confusing whispers falling into rhythm with my breathing.
I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m sorry. Forgive me…
I blocked her out, thinking instead of Penelope. I replayed our meeting in my mind, over and over, like tracing the edges of a new trinket, committing every detail to memory before tucking it safely away, knowing I would revisit it again once the morning found me.
2
The king did not summon me again.
I had never experienced rejection before, and I hated the feel of it, the way it lingered low in my belly, caught between a sting and an ache.
Acte still visited the kitchens nightly, and each time I watched her escorting a new slave upstairs, that feeling inside me intensified.
Why them?I wanted to scream.Why not me?
“It’s for the best,” my mother told me, though these words made little sense. How could the sweaty, overcrowded kitchens be better than that beautiful, glimmering world above?
