The soldier’s keen gaze darted down the length of me, then back to my face. How did I recognize him? “You should return to your husband,” he said.
“I’m not married.”
“Then you’re betrothed?”
“Oh, I’m never getting married.”
“But you’re tagged.”
My hand darted to the back of my neck, my U-shaped scar.
“I apologize for the overfamiliarity,” he said. “I noticed it while I was tying your velo.”
Discussing my tag with a soldier was the last thing I wanted to do. “I’m a ward of the Guild of Gaea.”
“You’re a vestal?”
“No. I live with them.”
He gave a confused frown. “You’ll never marry, yet you aren’t a vestal?”
The sides of my mouth flattened. Those were a woman’s only options: surrender to the gods or to a man.
An army officer stepped out of the tavern beside us. At the sight of his ratlike face, I turned away. He was the soldier who’d stolen my half-Titan sister: Brigadier Orrin—Ratface—General Decimus’s right-hand man. The back of my neck began to itch. I half expected Decimus to exit the tavern, but no one else came out.
“Theo,” the brigadier called. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working.”
“I came for a drink after my shift, sir,” answered the soldier who had given me the olives—Theo, apparently.
“You should have told me you were coming,” Ratface said. “I would have waited. It’s been too long since we’ve shared a cask of wine.”
Theo gave an uncomfortable swallow that he covered with a sideways smile. “An oversight on my part,” he said. “I understand if you don’t have time for one now.”
“I do have to get back . . .” Brigadier Orrin slapped him on the back. “But I have time for one more.”
Theo cast me a farewell glance over his shoulder, and the two men ambled into the tavern.
I mounted the donkey, my stiff movements unhurried despite my urge to flee, and rode toward the city gates, with one eye on the lookout for Decimus. Only after I was far down the road and away from Othrys did I exhale. And still, the scar on the back of my neck itched.
3
The temple lights shone in the soft late-day sun. I returned the donkey to his pen and hefted the supplies to the kitchen, my back and bottom aching. Dozens of loaves of fresh bread were set out on the corner table, ready to be put in baskets. Acraea was busily straining yogurt at the worktable while the slaves gossiped and pretended to sweep. A group of vestals was just now sitting down to roasted lamb and honey-hearted cups of wine.
The vestals quieted as I entered, took off my velo, and untied my hair. The vestals always ate first, before the slaves. My sisters and I didn’t have set mealtimes. Though we sometimes dined with the slaves, we usually waited until all the chores were finished. That’s when we could finally convince Cleora to get off her feet for the day. Sometimes Bronte and I would eat first, then perform for Cleora while she dined. I would dance while Bronte sang silly ditties, and Cleora would beam. We saw her happy too seldom.
“Good, you remembered the olives,” Acraea said as I unloaded the wares I’d purchased.
“You have no idea how difficult those were to find.”
“Really? I suppose I did hear about a hard frost making them scarce.”
One of the slaves spoke up. “I heard about that from a maiden at the watering pool. She said Menoetius and Epimetheus got into some sort of argument over which of them had impregnated a woodland nymph. When it was discovered that Epimetheus was the father, Menoetius flew into a rage. The poor nymph fled to an olive grove to hide. Menoetius called down a terrible frost that froze all the trees, and the nymph, to death.”
That would have been good to know before I spent hours searching the market.
The sons of Iapetus, second-generation Titans, were often getting into squabbles that affected mankind. Menoetius, known for his rashness, and Epimetheus, known for his thick-headedness, once burned down an entire forest in a wager about which could catch a shooting star and throw it farther.
“Where are Cleora and Bronte?” I asked.
“Bronte hasn’t returned from the fields yet,” Acraea replied, her attention on the honeycomb she was crushing in a bowl.
“And Cleora?” I asked, scanning the room. None of the vestals would meet my gaze. The slaves were behind on preparations for tomorrow’s meals, half the pots still needed scrubbing, and more people had yet to be served supper. Bronte would stay out as long as possible before returning, but Cleora hardly left the kitchen until all the meals were finished and everything was tidy.
“I, ah, believe she’s meeting with the matron,” Acraea said, drizzling honey over the yogurt.
Cleora would not leave the kitchen unattended at supper hour unless it was important. I thought back to the morning. “Is this about me blaspheming? I apologized.” Not to the matron, but Acraea didn’t need to know that.
“I don’t think so? I believe they’re finishing her music lesson.”
Acraea’s vagueness poked at me. As second-in-command in the kitchen, she always knew where Cleora was and what she was doing. It wasn’t hard to keep track of her. She never left the compound.
“It’s a little early in the evening for lessons,” I noted. And why, if the matron was giving Cleora a lesson, didn’t I hear her lyre?
Acraea gripped the side of the mixing bowl, her knuckles paling to white. “Althea, don’t do anything rash.”
“Why would you say that? I’m not Menoetius, after all.”
Acraea waved her sticky hands about, mumbling indecipherably.
Something wasn’t right.
I started toward the stairs.
“The matron asked not to be disturbed,” Acraea called after me.
“During a music lesson?” I walked faster.
“This is what Cleora wants!”
I took the stairs two at a time, yelling so my voice would carry up the stairwell ahead of me. “Cleora, you’re needed in the kitchen!”
The gynaeceum where the women weaved and spun, and where the matron gave music lessons, was dark and empty. I marched down the hall to our bedchamber. No one was there either.
The matron’s chamber was at the far end of the corridor. I slammed through the door. Cleora lay on the floor in front of the hearth, seemingly unconscious. The matron held a red-hot poker above Cleora’s face.
I wrestled the poker from the matron’s hand. “What are you doing?” I yelled.
Matron Prosymna’s velo hid her face, except her frightened eyes. “Your sister asked for this. She was too afraid to do it herself.”
My whole arm shook as I held the fire poker over my head. I scoured my sister’s face for damage, but her pale skin was unmarked. “Be grateful you didn’t burn her, or I would have had to shove this down your throat.”
The matron gulped.
I tossed the poker aside and bent over my sister. “Cleora? Cleora, wake up.” Her arms hung from her sides. I shook her, but she didn’t stir. “What did you do to her?”
Matron Prosymna lifted her chin, her tone unapologetic. “She asked for a sedative.”