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“Dinner,” Melite announces, and we gather in the firelight. The night is calm, the fire is warm, but we are a somber gathering.

Melite puts a bowl of stewed mutton in my lap, but across the fire I catch Kypris’s eyes, and suddenly my appetite is gone. I leave the stew at my feet until it turns cold.

“Time to turn in,” Hector’s father says, when the rest have had their fill. He glances up to the dark sky and bright moon, and I think of Artemis and her chariot, riding through the sky: goddess of night-time and of the hunt.

Which of the gods are loyal to Aphrodite, and which have their allegiance elsewhere? I pull the hood of my cloak a little tighter, and feel the cool stone of the medallion against my throat.

Soon pallets are rolled out in the wagons. There are none extra for me, so I bundle some spare fabric on the floor and make a pillow of my arms. I stare out at the stars and think that I will never sleep—except it seems I do, because suddenly I start awake in the darkness, with a stranger’s hand over my mouth.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

My brain kicks, my thoughts still foggy but full of terror.

Bandits, I think at first, but it is no bandit. It’s Kypris, with a kitchen knife in her hand. Her eyes flash at me. I cannot say what she sees in mine, but it’s not fear. I am not afraid of her. I am not even angry at her.

“I know who you are,” she hisses. “You don’t fool me. You are the reason my brother’s dead.”

Her teeth are sharp pearls in the moonlight. The knife trembles in her hand.

“You bewitched all the boys in Sikyon. First you bewitched them, and then you let them die. The goddess sent us a punishment meant for you.Youwere supposed to die, not us. Not Hector.”

I feel a wave of sorrow inside me. Her fight is not with me. It’s not I who am her enemy. It’s the gods who wrong us all, but she is too young to see it.

Then again, maybe she will never see it. Maybe she will become a woman, and then an old woman, and live all her days in anger.

Her furious eyes are too focused on my face; she doesn’t see my arm in the darkness, circling around to grip hers. When I clamp her around her skinny forearm, she lets out a small, muted cry of rage. She doesn’t drop the knife. I don’t need her to.

“I’m going now,” I say. “You will never see me again.” I keep a hand on her arm as I move toward the side of the wagon, bringing her with me; Ajax is tied up right nearby.

“I am armed, with a sharper knife than yours in my pocket.The quiver of arrows on my back belongs to a god. Don’t seek to fight me, Kypris. Think me a killer if you wish, but you are not one.”

Keep your innocence while you can, girl.

She stares at me, her breath shuddering, her knife-arm frozen. A paralysis of hate and doubt.

I walk away and don’t look back. I untie Ajax, throw myself onto his back, and ride into the night.

*

Now that I am alone, the roads seem darker. The world is silent, just the slow clop of Ajax’s hooves stepping rhythmically against the dirt, and the sound of small creatures rustling in the shrub. At least, I hope they’re small. Under the moonlight, I can almost imagine we are ghosts, the two of us: the ghost horse and his ghost rider. I am still adjusting to my seat and my legs ache, my skin sore and chafed around my thighs. I ride with my cape pulled fast across my head, and our two forms throw long shadows over the road when the moon moves from behind a cloud. There are no other riders: night-time is not for journeying but for making camp and resting. I, however, will not stop till dawn. For one thing, Kypris may rouse her family and tell them what happened—or tell them a version of the truth that turns them against me. I think it’s best I don’t see the Georgious’ wagon again. Besides that, I am a woman alone. I am safer on Ajax’s back than asleep by the roadside. But as we walk on through the night, the road starts to blur before me, the moonlight pulsing strangely, like a throbbing in my mind. When my legs scream with pain and I’m too tired to stay upright any longer, I give in and edge Ajax off the path. I can tell by the faint streaks in the east, it’s only an hour or so till dawn. I’ll feel better when it’s light.

“Only a few more hours ahead of us now,” I tell Ajax softly. Hearing my own words aloud I feel a shiver down my spine. I don’t know whether it’s excitement or dread.

In the rough growth to the right of the path there are brambles, but Ajax makes his way carefully around them. We go about twenty paces from the road before I ease him to a stop and dismount. I tie him to a tree there, although it feels almost an insult to do so. But he lets me, and doesn’t complain. I look into his eyes, put a hand against his nose. His honey-colored eyes gaze back at me. Steady, somber.

“Thank you, Ajax.”

I pile some leaves under me, dismiss the pain screaming in my muscles, and wait for sleep.

*

There’s a chuckle, and a crack of breaking twigs.

“Nice full saddlebags,” a voice says. “Some coin in there, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“And the girl,” says another voice. “Tasty enough, isn’t she?”

The first voice is disinterested.