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The thread snapped between her fingers. For a long moment, she just stared at it. “I wanted children, too. And that was very foolish of me.”

I had no herbs that would make it hurt less. The Wilds celebrated life and harvests. Here, a barren woman was a pariah. At best, she was turned away and sneered at. At worst, killed, deemed an omen of misfortune.

When she first arrived at Petrion’s gates, she’d asked quietly if I could heal her. With her permission, I had examined her. But there was no sickness to burn out. Her womb just couldn’t quicken with child.

She’d thanked me afterward. Somehow, her quiet acceptance had been worse than tears.

I caught her hands before she could tear another thread loose. “You don’t have to stop wanting a family just because you’re leaving the Wilds.”

She nodded without looking up. Her hands were stiff at first, then tightened around mine.

From the courtyard below came the scrape of a bench and Bion’s gruff voice directing someone toward the clinic rooms. Petrion had been busy since breakfast. A cart stood beneath the gatehouse, and two families had arrived on foot while I was bringing clean linen upstairs. The woman looked toward the open window, listening to the bustle.

“I could stay here,” she said.

“Yes, you could.”

“Your husband said that, too. He said I could work here if I wanted, once I’d rested.” She glanced at me. “I thought you might be disappointed if I changed my mind.”

I shook my head. “We’re only helping you pack because you asked us to. If you want to stay, I’ll put these clothes back in the chest right now.”

She looked down at the half-packed bag. I waited while she weighed the choice, resisting the urge to push her. Enough people had already told her what she was supposed to do.

At last, she reached for the box.

“My mother’s things,” she explained. Inside lay a pair of plain copper earrings and a ribbon worn soft with age. She traced the ribbon before snapping the lid shut. “I’d like to take these.”

I made room between the folded clothes. This time, she helped me pack.

After we lifted the bag, she settled the strap over her shoulder to test its weight. Her hands had stopped trembling. While she held her hair out of the way, I fastened her cloak, freeing a trapped fold of wool from the iron clasp.

“I’ll find Eryx,” I told her. “Come down when you’re ready.”

She caught my wrist before I could turn. “Thalia… do you think someone there could want me?”

It hurt to hear how carefully she asked it. She wanted an honest answer, but she was bracing herself for pity.

“I think you have every reason to hope,” I said. “Being unable to bear children won’t make you unfit to be someone’s wife there. It just means you are death-touched. And in Asphodelia, that is precious. Eryx has told you the truth about that.”

Her gaze shifted to the dark floral mark on my neck. “You believe him.”

“With my life.”

She released me, finally relaxing. When I reached the door, she had gone to the small mirror beside the window and was taking down her hair to comb it.

Downstairs, the front doors stood wide open to the afternoon. Someone had left a basket of apples on the hall table, and the smell of warm bread drifted from the kitchens. Kallisto passed me, carrying empty cups into the courtyard, tipping her head toward the clinic when I asked for Eryx.

“He’s finishing with the satyr. The one who came last week.”

I found my husband at his stone worktable, pouring a measure of dark liquid into a cup.

His patient sat opposite him, a carved walking stick propped against his knee. He was a broad-shouldered satyr whose thick horns curved back from his temples. He watched the draught with considerably more suspicion than he showed the gorgon preparing it.

“The whole cup?” he asked.

“The whole cup,” Eryx confirmed. “You told me you wanted to sleep through the night.”

“I’d hoped you might have improved the taste.”