“I suppose you have been wondering,” Hypsipyle began, looking down at her hands, “why women patrol the island in armor, and where the men of Lemnos have gone.”
In truth, I was wondering if she might know something—anything—about the witchcraft that ran in our family and how to get it back when it had been lost, but I held my tongue once more.
“Not so long ago, the men of Lemnos went raiding among the Thracian tribes,” Hypsipyle said. “They conquered land and brought back many captive women. Young and pretty women.” Her mouth twisted.
As Hypsipyle spoke, a woman entered the room. She was clad in a well-worn dress, her hair bound up in a rag. A slave. The woman’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes lowered, as if to brace herself against falling fists. She laid out plates of food: bread, oil, cheeses, meat. I had not enjoyed a decent meal since leaving Colchis and fell to with a greedy appetite.
“Men learn bad habits from consorting with slave girls,” Hypsipyle continued. “The men of Lemnos began to prefer the Thracians to their own wives, since captured women cannot complain. Wives were pushed aside in their own homes, and the children of slaves given pride of place over those of freeborn women. A terrible state of affairs. So we ordered the men out, to make their homes in Thrace and tend farms there with their new wives.”
“You ordered them out?” I echoed, astonished.
Hypsipyle smiled, sipping her wine. “We did, and the island flourishes for it. The women of Lemnos have found farming and fighting to be much more agreeable than domestic labor.”
A clatter caught my attention. The serving woman, the slave, had nearly dropped one of the empty dishes she was gathering up. At once, Hypsipyle’s easy manner fell away like a mask. She fixed the slave woman with a glare heavy with the promise of violence.The woman shrunk away, carrying our dirty plates and cups out of the room.
Hypsipyle turned back to me, a winning smile settling over her golden features once more. “My father, alas, was lost at sea and had no son to succeed him. So I rule here now, as you can see.”
There was something odd about this story, but I did not have time to parse the details. My lost witchcraft occupied my attention entirely. Now, during a lull in conversation, I circled around my hope and pounced.
“Seeing that we are kin,” I said, leaning forward eagerly, “I wondered if you might know anything about those persistent rumors regarding our family, about the magic said to flow in our veins.”
Hypsipyle laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about that. I am my father’s only child, and you are the first of our extended family that I have ever met. Besides, I don’t set much stock in sorcery—I prefer to trust in things that are real.”
My nails dug into my palms, fighting against the weight of disappointment. If I still had my witchcraft, I would have brewed a potion to force Hypsipyle to tell only the truth. But as matters stood, I did not think she was lying about this.
“And what do you know about magic, dear Medea?” Hypsipyle’s eyes, amber rather than gold like so many of the sun’s children, focused on me with an uncanny intensity.
“I’m afraid that I’m about as magical as a clump of dirt,” I replied with a dismissive wave. At the moment, it was the truth.
Atalanta, who had been utterly silent throughout our conversation, glanced at me sharply. I ignored her. She’d spent most of our little supper chewing open-mouthed with her elbows resting on the table, looking more like a wolf at the kill than a human being. I found her lack of manners thoroughly irritating.
“Ah, well,” Hypsipyle replied. “I heard that your mother was quite talented in that area. I’d wondered if you might be as well.”
“Perhaps it skips a generation,” I said with a strained smile.
“Indeed.” Hypsipyle stood. “Well, I must return to my duties. Make yourselves at home here, please. I will see you in the morning.”
She left, closing the door after her. With no windows, the only illumination in the room came from the profusion of lamps flickering all around. It was impossible to tell the time or to guess when morning might be.
As soon as Hypsipyle departed, Atalanta’s tall form unfurled, and she once again took up her interminable pacing.
“I don’t like this place,” she muttered. “Something smells wrong here. The air has a metallic tang like the scent of bronze or things hidden far underground. Sets my teeth on edge.”
Atalanta reached for the doorknob and would have turned it if I did not interrupt her with a shout.
“Stop!” I gasped. “You cannot simply wander about the home of a host. Certain etiquette must be observed. What, were you raised by beasts?”
“Yes. Bears, actually,” Atalanta replied with utmost sincerity.
For a moment I stared at her, then burst out laughing. Sidesplitting, belly-shaking laughs that made my eyes water. After the strain of recent events, it felt good. I could not remember the last time I’d had occasion to laugh so hard, and mused that perhaps Atalanta would not be such an unpleasant companion after all.
“I do not understand what is so very funny,” Atalanta muttered.
I brushed away tears of amusement. “Raised by bears. Well, that certainly explains a great deal. You must—”
But I did not finish, because at that moment the door swung open.
A woman entered. I recognized her as the slave who had served our supper.
