“Only my pride.” I rearranged my hair to cover the mark.
“I need to get back to the kitchen. We’ve got bread to bake.”
I glanced sideways at Cleora. Her tired voice and bloodshot eyes worried me. She had slept restlessly last night. She always did around the anniversary of Mother’s death. It would be seven years tomorrow. Mother was on all our minds.
“Why don’t you lie down?” I said. “I’ll tell Acraea not to expect you back until this afternoon.”
“The work is good for me. Having order in the house brings me peace.” Cleora tipped her forehead against mine. This show of affection had originated at the dawn of time when only Gaea, the Protogenos of the earth, existed and nothing lived on her yet. Uranus, the Protogenos of the sky, rose above her, sapphire blue and set with stars, and he rested his forehead against hers. That union of the primordial gods formed the first family—and family meant everything.
I shifted back. “Would you like anything from the city?”
“Just your safe return. Tell Acraea I’ll be right down. And, Althea? I try hard to make this our home. Please keep the peace with the matron.”
A hot lump expanded in my throat. I wanted a home of our own, just the three of us, far away from here, but Cleora tried to make this place a refuge. I didn’t intend to compromise that for her.
“I’ll do better,” I said, and slogged back downstairs to the kitchen.
The slaves’ regimen for preparing meals was already suffering from Cleora’s absence. The girls were loitering about, sipping wine and chatting. The fire in the hearth was dwindling, no additional grain had been ground, and the dough looked as though it had been shaped into loaves by a Cyclops.
Acraea snapped at them to get back to work. “They’re worse than sheep,” she grumbled. “Where’s Cleora?”
“She’ll be right down. I’m leaving now.”
Acraea passed me a basket with the shopping list, a pouch of coins, and food and water for the day. “Don’t forget, the olives must be—”
“Burgundy. I remember.”
I reached for an apricot from the basket on the table, and a pebble struck my hand. Bronte chuckled from where she stood outside the window, her bow and arrow slung over her shoulder. I stuck my tongue out at her, and she grinned before heading out to the fields.
Watching her go, I struggled not to envy her the quiet day she had ahead. Somehow, she always managed to find time alone, though, in honesty, she was more bearable to be around after she’d had a day to herself. Bronte would pass the time by singing in our secret cave or napping in the sun while she pondered ideas that she would later discuss with the vestals. She had a mind for philosophy and took interest in the guild’s beliefs in Gaea by starting noncontentious debates. Her favorite philosopher was the second-generation Titan Prometheus, the god of forethought. Most philosophers lived in the north, with the House of Coeus, where they studied with the greatest minds in the world, but as a woman, Bronte would never have that opportunity. Just as I could never become a true dancer. Women ran and maintained households. Everything else—particularly the arts and higher thinking—was for men.
I carried my basket of food to the stables. Our donkey had shoved his head through an opening in the fence around his pen to chew on the baby green shoots in the herb garden.
“Don’t let Bronte catch you,” I said, yanking him back into his pen. “I hope you didn’t eat anything poisonous.”
A section of the garden was reserved for medicinal purposes. Bronte could tell her plants apart, but, to me, they all looked the same. I strapped the saddlebags to the donkey and climbed on. The donkey would be slower and less comfortable than the matron’s mare, but I doubted Prosymna would permit me the favor of borrowing her horse.
Acraea caught me before I left and slipped a bundle into the basket. Up close, I could see the burn mark on her forehead that was usually hidden behind a fringe of gray hair. Conversely, the tag on the back of her neck, given to her as a young girl on behalf of the husband she later ran from, had nearly faded. She discreetly unwrapped the butcher’s knife for me to see.
“Keep an eye out for him,” she said.
I wanted to reassure her that she didn’t need to worry, that the chance I would encounter Decimus was low, but I couldn’t. As I rode out of the gates and up the path through the hushed, shadowy woodland, I wished I could have brought my spear and shield as well. Women weren’t allowed to carry such defenses.
Taking the kitchen knife out of the basket, I hid it in the folds of my skirt with one hand and gripped the reins with the other. Maidens usually traveled in pairs, but even safety in numbers was an illusion. I would ensure my security with a blade.
2
Taking a detour would shorten my time in the city, but I never traveled east without stopping to see my mother.
At a divide in the road, I dismounted and led the donkey down a footpath between cypress trees and speckled sycamores. Spring had flung itself back into the northeastern region of Thessaly, brightening every bush and tree in brilliant green.
The hamadryads living in the dogwood and mulberry trees studied me as I passed. Their faces blended with the rough bark, their arms twisted into the boughs and bodies winding around the curvy trunks. The woodland spirits were good natured unless disturbed.
I stepped over their roots and ducked from their branches to avoid bothering them. The ground softened to sandy soil, an easier place to bury the dead, as well as prime ground for the olive trees that marked the entrance to the graveyard.
Headstones in the shape of pillars were scattered across the mossy sanctuary. I stopped before two, one shorter than the other, and rested my hand on the tall one.
“Hello, Mama.”
Six pairs of wings were etched on the front, which read, FAMILY DOESN’T ABANDON FAMILY. The shorter headstone stood atop an empty grave for our half sister, who hadn’t been seen or heard of since the guards ripped her from my arms. Not a day went by that I did not think of her, wonder what my mother would have named her, and picture the life she would have lived.
Though no one was buried there, it hurt my heart to kneel before the vacant grave site and dig, shoveling up dirt by the fistful. After Mother’s death, we received an official letter of appreciation and payment for her service to the First House as an honor maiden. The Almighty referred to his captives as honorable, as though their abduction was a noble calling.
The letter I burned.
The pouch of coins I buried.
Now I dusted off the pouch. Years ago, when my sisters and I buried the coin, we promised each other we would only spend it on one thing.
“Mama, I’m getting us out. It’s time.”
Cleora was too comfortable at the compound, and too committed to the guild. Any longer living there, and she might never leave. But the true impetus was time. Decimus would not wait forever to return for me.
After tying the pouch to my belt, I patted the dirt back into place and covered it with moss to prevent anyone from noticing. Cleora or Bronte would have uttered a prayer for the well-being of our mother’s and our half sister’s souls, but I gave up on turning to Gaea a long time ago.
I led the donkey past the wide-eyed hamadryads and back to the road. We followed the steep gravel path uphill and around the throat of the mountain.