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“Father…”

“Psyche,go.” He blinks fast, his voice tight with agitation. “Pack your things. Hide your jewels under your robes. Do as I say.”

Upstairs I do as he bids me—it does not take long—and sit before the window, waiting for the dusk to turn to darkness.

I have no explanation for what happened today, but if I’m honest, it’s not quite as out of the blue as it might seem. Certainly,thishasn’t happened before. But things—other things—have happened. Like when I was fourteen and scalded myself with boiling water, but the burn was gone by morning. Or the time I fell dismounting a carriage and felt the bone go under me. Then the next day, when I could walk easily again, everyone said it must have only been a light sprain. And why not? It was the most reasonable answer. I was healthy, I was lucky, I healed a little quicker than other children. Certainly no one spoke of miracles.

But now I wonder if instead, we should have spoken ofcurses.

Night falls, midnight comes and goes. Father keeps us away from the windows, and warns us to be quiet, to keep our activity from the servants’ notice. It’s an hour before dawn when we tiptoe to the door. Father has some twine and sheets of linen; he plans to wrap the hooves of our horse, Ada, to muffle them before hitching her to the carriage. He looks at the large cowhide bag Dimitra has dragged out from her cedar chest.

“We take nothing we can’t carry on foot.” He takes the bag from her and leaves it by the door. I feel Dimitra fuming silently. One more indignity; one more thing I have deprived her of.

“Ready?” In the darkness, Father looks from one of us to the other, his eyes hooded by shadows. I nod. Dimitra says nothing.

“Good. Then go silently to the stable. Dimitra, you first. Then you, Psyche. I’ll follow.”

The night is velvet, the deep darkness of the pre-dawn hours. We step out into it, but my feet are barely on the flagstones when I hear a sound.

A clearing of the throat. Polite. Male.

I look over and there they are.

Yiannis and Vasilis.

Chapter Seven

I don’t understand at first. I even take a half-step toward him. I’m thinking he’s here to say goodbye, to tell me he loves me and will love me forever.

But of course that’s not why Yiannis is here. Another glance at his face—afraid, unhappy—is enough to tell me that. And besides, where Vasilis goes, trouble follows.

“Khaire, family of Andreos,” Vasilis says in smirking, formal tones. His eyes rove over me in the usual way, then he turns to my father, who’s breathing hard beside me, heartbreak in each inhale.

“Kirios Andreos,” Vasilis goes on, “you are early. The king bade you bring your daughter to the rock at dawn, and it is more than an hour until then.” He glances smugly at Yiannis.

“He also bade us escort you, just in case you needed any…encouragement.”

“Psyche—” My father’s voice cracks. But he has nothing left to say.

It’s Dimitra who turns and whispers, loud enough for me alone to hear.

“I can hold them off—for a little while, at least. Ada’s waiting in the stable. If you move quickly—”

I place a hand on her arm. Father trained her well; her hand-to-hand combat was always better than mine, and no man of Sikyon would expect a woman to fight them. She would have the advantage—for about thirty seconds.

“It’s done,” I say. “We had our chance.”

But we didn’t. We never had a chance at all.

*

We go on foot. Father walks in the middle, Dimitra on one side and me on the other. The boys follow behind us like wolves following sheep. When the wind turns I can smell the mint pomade Yiannis uses for his hair. I don’t turn to look at him. I think the sight of him now would sicken me.

The path down toward Aphrodite’s Pillow is steep and curving, hugging the windward side of the mountain. The air buffets us as we walk, harder the closer we get. Eventually a smaller path splinters off to the left, leading toward a rocky cliff face that juts out high above the sea.

This part I had not expected: the people.

There are so many of them.