Cleora straightened up and finally looked at me. “Where’s your velo?”
“Upstairs in our bedchamber.”
Her amber eyes flashed. “You went outside unmasked? Were you seen?”
“Nothing happened,” I said, sipping from the wine chalice the three of us shared. Cleora snatched my wrist, and I nearly spilled down the front of myself.
“Who saw you?” she asked.
“The hoplites weren’t interested in me.” I reached for a piece of flatbread with my free hand, but she shifted and blocked my way.
“Take this seriously,” she said. “Did they speak to you?”
“Just pleasantries in passing.”
“Althea,” she groaned. “How many times must I tell you not to leave the compound unmasked? Go fetch your velo. You’re not traveling without it.”
Cleora’s usual bossy overprotectiveness grated on me. Of course, I wouldn’t go to the city without my modesty mask. I wasn’t dense. “Can I eat first? Gods.”
“Watch your tongue,” the matron snapped.
Everyone froze except Bronte, who was busy grinding wheat, preoccupied by her own humming. She sang to herself so often that no one found it odd when she didn’t respond to Matron Prosymna’s appearance in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Do not blasphemy in Gaea’s house,” said the matron.
The goddess wasn’t present to take offense, but I didn’t point that out.
“Althea didn’t mean anything by it,” Cleora said, letting go of my wrist.
“I will hear an apology from your sister,” the matron replied.
“Althea?” Cleora prodded.
I refused to meet their gazes. I was not sorry about my slip of the tongue.
“Althea,” Bronte said with a kindly singsong in her voice. “You should apologize.”
It might have been petulant of me, but my older sisters ordering me about was too much just then. My hands and back still ached from chores, and my stomach grumbled for more food. For nearly seven years, I had toiled hours a day for the guild. At what point would I earn the right to speak without watching my words?
“Perhaps she needs more work to avoid idle time,” the matron said.
Eating breakfast was idle time?
“Althea’s grateful for all you provide,” Cleora replied in a rush. “She hasn’t eaten yet, and you know she’s grumpy when she’s hungry. I’ll fetch her velo.” She whisked out of the kitchen.
“The rest of you get back to work,” Matron Prosymna commanded. “Bronte, shouldn’t you be leaving for the fields?”
Bronte glanced at the pile of herbs set aside for her to wash and chop. “Cleora asked me to help here before I—”
“Your sister will manage. You’re required elsewhere.”
Bronte slowly set down the pestle, then met the matron’s stare. My sister hid her disdain so well that sometimes I forgot I wasn’t the only one barely tolerating our life in the temple. “Yes, matron,” Bronte said with a hint of derision.
Matron Prosymna cast me one last pinch-lipped glare and stormed out.
Acraea returned to kneading the bread, shaking her head. “You know how to liven up a morning, Althea.”
Bronte brushed the coarse-ground grains off her hands. “My little sister’s stubbornness could raise the Gigantes from the underworld.”
“You don’t wear your velo to the watering hole either,” I shot back.
“I’m careful not to be seen, mm-hmm,” Bronte teased. “You know how Cleora feels about us leaving the compound.”
Cleora hadn’t gone outside since our mother was taken. Though she was twenty-one now, and a full-grown woman, it was an unacknowledged courtesy that we never spoke of her self-segregation from the outside world.
Bronte showed the bowl of ground grain to Acraea. “This looks finished.”
“It’s perfect,” Acraea replied.
Bronte ground grain better than anyone else in the compound. She adjusted her gold necklace, frowning. “Should one of us check on Cleora?”
By “one of us,” she meant me.
I downed the wine in our cup, then took the last two pieces of flatbread and ate them on my way upstairs.
Cleora was straightening my bedcovers as I arrived. Our small chamber was only just better than the slave quarters, but Cleora had added homey touches: painted violets and yellow crocuses along the base of the plain ceramic walls, polished tile floors, our few belongings displayed beautifully on shelves, our clothes organized and stowed in cedar chests. Our mother’s lyre in its wooden case was the showpiece on one shelf, and leaning against the opposite wall was our family loom.
It was cramped quarters for the three of us, but Cleora cared for it well. She was slender yet strong from lifting heavy pots of water and hauling logs to feed the ever-burning fire in the kitchen hearth, and she moved with a measured grace that radiated temperance. She wasn’t a dancer—though she played the lyre beautifully—but her internal tempo was steadfast. Watching her work was mesmerizing, like observing the waves of the sea, constant and purposeful.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Now you apologize?” Cleora pulled at the bedcovers with quick tugs. “The matron only has so much patience.”
“She’ll forget about it.”
We both knew that without Cleora instructing the kitchen slaves or Bronte and I assisting in preparing the food, Matron Prosymna would struggle to feed the fifty or so vestals living here. We had become indispensable, especially Cleora, whose ability to run a household more than compensated for her reluctance to do outside chores.
“I cannot find your velo,” she said. “It must be here somewhere . . . Ah, here it is.”
She pulled my modesty mask out from under the bed and sat down, facing the window and its view of Mount Othrys. Our former home, the city of Othrys, kneeled at the feet of the mountain peak, strewn around its fringes in the stony foothills. I sat beside Cleora, close enough to smell the almond oil she had dabbed into her wavy red hair.
She offered my mask to me. “I know you dislike wearing your velo, Althea, but don’t take it off today.”
“I shouldn’t have to veil myself every time I step outside.”
“You sound like Mama.” Cleora sighed.
“Mama was right about a lot of things,” I said.
“Perhaps, but we must be grateful for what the gods have given us.”
Women weren’t doomed to live off scraps of happiness, but I suspected Cleora was concerned about Decimus seeing me in the city. I wouldn’t worry her more. “I won’t take off my velo.”
She tied the strings behind my head. Plumes extended from the eye openings, resembling a mane, or flames, depending on one’s interpretation of the exquisite craftsmanship. It had belonged to our mother and, before her, our grandmother.
“Quit moving,” Cleora said.
“My nose itches.”
“Why can’t you ever sit still?”
“I can.” I wriggled my nose to scratch it against the inside of my mask, but otherwise, I didn’t move.
“Finished.” Cleora’s finger skimmed the scar on the back of my neck. It had taken four vestals to restrain me—and another four to hold back my sisters—when the matron burned the U-shaped tag into my skin. “Does it still hurt?”