Page 48

“You know nothing of mortal life,” I say at last, my heart pounding in my chest. “Nothing of what it means to bealive!Nothing of real feeling! Nothing of anything worth knowing!”

I shove my plate across the table, hoping it smashes, and knock over the water glass while I’m at it. The cold water splashes against his cloak and puddles quickly on the table. And I run from the table, and slam my bedroom door behind me.

*

I stare out my bedroom window as dusk sets.

Father. Dimitra.

Unless the demon is lying, they are gone from our home. But why?

They thought me dead.It was too painful, perhaps, to remain in our home after what happened there. But could they afford to leave? Corinth is the nearest great city, but would it care for two Sikyonian migrants? Corinth has not always had warm relations with us. Perhaps they have set out for Caphyae, then, or Argos…

I shake my head. How am I to guess at their path? And what am I to do now, when I break free of this place; where do I run to?

If only I had got the letter to them sooner.

But now my family are gone: sand through my fingers. I lie on the bed and stare at the darkness over the forest, and if tears come instead of sleep, I let them.

My dreams, when they come, are cruel. I see my father as an old man, walking on a high mountain pass as the wind batters and wrenches at him and he falls to his knees. I see our old horse, Ada, struggling through a great flood, her legs pushing gamely even as she sinks, while Dimitra calls hopelessly to her from the shore. I see fire and ash, and terrible things.

When I wake, I don’t leave my bed. I watch the sun get higher, and then, finally, lower. When a knock comes at my door I ignore it. But the door opens anyway. I turn quickly, but it’sonly Aletheia. She carries a tray, with a platter of bread and a pitcher of water.

Quietly, she places it on a side table. I look at her; she looks back at me.

“He is not here tonight,” she says, as though I had asked. But I didn’t. I refuse to.

“He said to tell you, he still searches.”

I stare at her then.

He still searches?

The message is clear enough. And am I to believe it—that after last night, he still looks for my father and sister?

“He told you that?”

She nods, her dark eyes roving over me. I think of what the demon said last night. Does Aletheia think I scorn her? Since the first, I thought that beady gaze was full of hate for me. Is it possible I was wrong?

I hesitate.

“Thank you for the bread and water.”

She betrays no sign of having heard my words at first. She ignores me, I think. But then she taps a knuckle against her chest—a small, brief gesture that I recognize. It is a sign my people make to invoke courage.Strong heart, it means.

A sign of encouragement? Of…sympathy?

But she is already gone, leaving only the tray of bread and water, and my startled gaze on the closed door.

*

The demon does not return the next day, nor the day after that. I eat alone, in my room. During the days I roam the palace, learning every twist and turn of its hallways. He has taken the horses for his carriage, it seems: all four are gone fromtheir stalls now. Which means Aletheia does not take the key downstairs in the mornings. Where she hides it, I don’t know.

In the mornings she leaves some bread and water in the great-room for me, and in the evenings, the same on a tray in my room. During the days I sometimes go to the gardens, but I do not see the nymphs again—whether by coincidence or because they avoid me, I can’t tell.

I explore another place, too.

When I open the door to the weaving-room, awe hits me afresh. The loom is as tall as a statue and delicate as a lyre—truly an object fit for the gods. Sunlight streams in and turns the veined wood gold in parts.