Page 7 of This Divine Revelry

But he doesn’t look at me once – his eyes are locked on my father. No fright, no terror. Only amusement of his own.

Phaedra and I are decidedly not invited to the evening’s feast. Father believes the only women who ought to attend banquets are those paid for their services. Evidently the exception is the seven women he plans to sacrifice tomorrow, though I imagine he sees their demise as a similar proposition, their bodies purchased and merrily disposed of.

Instead, I move to the next part of my plan – that hatch outside the kitchens, the herbs I have stored and the meat set aside for tomorrow’s feast. Then I head to my room and dig out a dress and veil pilfered from the laundry.

We used to keep cells in the mountains but Father’s tyranny of late has him wanting to keep his enemies close. So he converted a former stable into a prison. Once they’ve finished dining, it’s where I go.

I adjust the tie holding my dress together, allowing myself this last nervous fidget before I turn the corner. I hold myself to my full height, my arms slightly aloft to show off the richness of the linen weave and the careful stitches to the wrist. A priestess, evidently. And I hope the guards do not look closer than that.

Peering through the veil, I see them.

The cells are guarded by the best of Crete’s army: strong, brutal – and not that much older than me. Which is my only hope – that they were children when the last tribute happened, so how would they know whether there were attendants of the gods present?

I raise my jug of olive oil for their observation.

‘I’m here to perform rites ahead of the sacrifice.’

They glance at one another. ‘No one told us of rites.’

I swallow – worst case … worst case I claim I was intrigued. I wanted to sneak in and see them. I certainly wasn’t planning on breaking them out, just sating a curiosity I never should have had.

I’d be confined to my room, delivered only oats and water – perhaps even levied with one of those violent punishments Father prefers to save for the servants.

But I’d keep my life. Which is what the Athenians currently risk – and why I must press on.

‘My instructions were quite strict,’ I say, keeping my voice thoroughly delighted. ‘To treat them as we would any other animal slaughtered at our altars.’

The men laugh. ‘True enough. Go on in, then.’

The guards stand at the end of the hall, not quite out of sight.

But perhaps out of hearing.

The wooden doors have been replaced by thick iron bars and all the Athenians have been placed together in a cell. They quiet at my approaching steps. One sleeps in the corner. A few are red-faced and swaying on their feet. Evidently the wine everyone keeps raving about is doing its work – and I can’t say I wouldn’t be heartily draining it the night before my slaughter either.

‘I’m here to anoint you in the name of Poseidon,’ I say.

As one, they turn to that out-of-place boy.

He barks a laugh. ‘Is that so? Well, you can tell Poseidon he’s sure to be very proud of what will happen tomorrow.’

Doubtful – though who can say how a god would react to a thing like that. There’s been no rebuke so far for this weaponization of an intended punishment, but perhaps he is only biding his time. Or maybe he’s impressed, savouring the violence of his creation.

‘If you step to the bars I can cleanse you.’

It should be noted that I have no idea how the priests and priestesses prepare sacrifices. But in my experience, olive oil is Crete’s answer to everything: soap, lights, perfume, cooking.

Anointing the dead.

And the look that boy gives me now implies it’s the use he’s thinking of too.

‘Not bloody likely,’ snarls the girl with the dark hair, kicking at the bar with such force I flinch even as she reels back.

‘Hey!’ a guard bellows, stepping forward.

The boy holds out a hand with such instinctive command the guard stops. ‘I’ll handle her. We don’t want to make this any more difficult than it already is.’ He steps forward and presses his face to the gap between the bars. ‘Work away, priestess.’

I dip my fingers into the jug and step closer, blocking the guards’ view with my body.