was looking at me differently now, like someone roused from sleep by a deadly assassin.
I bade them good night.
Artemis:
Amazing.
Apollo:
Your quiver, please.
Artemis:
Holy Hera! I’ll never bet against her again.
Apollo:
Too bad. I’ve been coveting your obsidian knife.
Artemis:
Enough! I’m going hunting.
Apollo:
Don’t shoot too many helpless little animals. You’re supposed to protect them, remember?
Artemis:
Be quiet, won’t you!
Apollo:
Sore loser.
PART THREE
The Races
SEVENTEEN
Aphrodite:
Eros, peel me a grape.
Eros:
I’m busy, Mother.
Aphrodite:
Do as I say, darling, and I’ll let you shoot someone for me. Don’t you want to make some poor, unsuspecting mortal fall in love?
Eros:
Here’s your grape.
Aphrodite:
Thank you, my sweet. Now, do you know where Arcadia is?
It was Perifanos who told me about the race. We were riding—I had implored him to take me out, and gruff Mataios had given permission—and I had just had my first extended gallop on Callisto. Perifanos did not object when I asked to go at speed; he could see that I was surer of my balance now. Crouching atop Callisto with her mane whipping my face, overtaking and then passing Perifanos’ big bay, I was happier than I had been since coming to the palace.
The euphoria ended far too quickly. When we slowed to a trot and Perifanos caught up with us, he told me that I would be racing my first suitor the following day.
My heart slammed. “Tomorrow?” I managed to ask. “How do you know?”
“Mataios heard it from Pistos.” The old man who served wine at dinner was also my father’s personal attendant.
I reminded myself that Perifanos, like Pistos, was in my father’s employ, and that my father must think I was eager to race. “Who hastens here so eagerly to meet his death?” I asked lightly, as if I were asking what meats would be served at dinner. Yet the thought of what lay ahead sickened me. How could anyone come forward knowing the conditions I had set?
Wholly disheartened, I looked down at the reins in my hand. The threat of death—a strategy I had thought so ingenious, so wonderfully clever—had not kept anyone away, and now I would have to kill a man. It was horrible, like being wrapped in a poisonous cloak of my own design.
“I do not know,” said Perifanos.
No matter, I thought. My father would be quite pleased to tell me.
Perifanos watched me impassively. If he sensed my distress, he gave no sign. “Another gallop?” he asked.
“As long as it’s not back to the palace.”
This made him smile.
“Thank you for telling me about tomorrow,” I said. Before he could reply, I urged Callisto forward.
It took him a long time to catch us.
EIGHTEEN
Entella brought up the race while she arranged my hair before dinner. I was not surprised. Entella knew everything that went on in the palace, from who dented the king’s goblet (Pistos, who had dared to blame it on her daughter Agnos) to what Nephele took for her monthly headaches (feverfew).
“Your first suitor!” she exclaimed, as her hands braided tirelessly. “Well! Who is he?”
“I was going to ask you that,” I said.
“Me!” She feigned surprise.
“You might have heard something,” I replied blandly, “from Pistos, or Nephele.”
“Pistos never tells me anything,” she said. “He stopped when your mother died. I said some things about the king. . . . Pistos is very loyal to him.”
“And Nephele?”
“The Lady Nephele knows only what the king tells her.” From the way she said it, I guessed it was very little. Poor Nephele, I thought.
“Did my father love my mother?” I had wanted to ask this from the time Entella had told me about my mother’s death.
“What a question!” she exclaimed, this time with genuine surprise.
I shrugged. “You must know,” I said. If the answer did not come from Entella, it would not come at all, for I would never ask my father.
“He did love her,” she said slowly, and with great
I bade them good night.
Artemis:
Amazing.
Apollo:
Your quiver, please.
Artemis:
Holy Hera! I’ll never bet against her again.
Apollo:
Too bad. I’ve been coveting your obsidian knife.
Artemis:
Enough! I’m going hunting.
Apollo:
Don’t shoot too many helpless little animals. You’re supposed to protect them, remember?
Artemis:
Be quiet, won’t you!
Apollo:
Sore loser.
PART THREE
The Races
SEVENTEEN
Aphrodite:
Eros, peel me a grape.
Eros:
I’m busy, Mother.
Aphrodite:
Do as I say, darling, and I’ll let you shoot someone for me. Don’t you want to make some poor, unsuspecting mortal fall in love?
Eros:
Here’s your grape.
Aphrodite:
Thank you, my sweet. Now, do you know where Arcadia is?
It was Perifanos who told me about the race. We were riding—I had implored him to take me out, and gruff Mataios had given permission—and I had just had my first extended gallop on Callisto. Perifanos did not object when I asked to go at speed; he could see that I was surer of my balance now. Crouching atop Callisto with her mane whipping my face, overtaking and then passing Perifanos’ big bay, I was happier than I had been since coming to the palace.
The euphoria ended far too quickly. When we slowed to a trot and Perifanos caught up with us, he told me that I would be racing my first suitor the following day.
My heart slammed. “Tomorrow?” I managed to ask. “How do you know?”
“Mataios heard it from Pistos.” The old man who served wine at dinner was also my father’s personal attendant.
I reminded myself that Perifanos, like Pistos, was in my father’s employ, and that my father must think I was eager to race. “Who hastens here so eagerly to meet his death?” I asked lightly, as if I were asking what meats would be served at dinner. Yet the thought of what lay ahead sickened me. How could anyone come forward knowing the conditions I had set?
Wholly disheartened, I looked down at the reins in my hand. The threat of death—a strategy I had thought so ingenious, so wonderfully clever—had not kept anyone away, and now I would have to kill a man. It was horrible, like being wrapped in a poisonous cloak of my own design.
“I do not know,” said Perifanos.
No matter, I thought. My father would be quite pleased to tell me.
Perifanos watched me impassively. If he sensed my distress, he gave no sign. “Another gallop?” he asked.
“As long as it’s not back to the palace.”
This made him smile.
“Thank you for telling me about tomorrow,” I said. Before he could reply, I urged Callisto forward.
It took him a long time to catch us.
EIGHTEEN
Entella brought up the race while she arranged my hair before dinner. I was not surprised. Entella knew everything that went on in the palace, from who dented the king’s goblet (Pistos, who had dared to blame it on her daughter Agnos) to what Nephele took for her monthly headaches (feverfew).
“Your first suitor!” she exclaimed, as her hands braided tirelessly. “Well! Who is he?”
“I was going to ask you that,” I said.
“Me!” She feigned surprise.
“You might have heard something,” I replied blandly, “from Pistos, or Nephele.”
“Pistos never tells me anything,” she said. “He stopped when your mother died. I said some things about the king. . . . Pistos is very loyal to him.”
“And Nephele?”
“The Lady Nephele knows only what the king tells her.” From the way she said it, I guessed it was very little. Poor Nephele, I thought.
“Did my father love my mother?” I had wanted to ask this from the time Entella had told me about my mother’s death.
“What a question!” she exclaimed, this time with genuine surprise.
I shrugged. “You must know,” I said. If the answer did not come from Entella, it would not come at all, for I would never ask my father.
“He did love her,” she said slowly, and with great
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