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“My daughter is brave. But I have a better thought. We will return with her to the temple tomorrow—the Council can accompany us. Don’t you think, Kirios Demou? Then they can see in person how deep, how sincere is my daughter’s humility. They will see that any…” he hesitates. “Any divine offense, is no longer.”

He says nothing of my future in Sikyon: how my denuded head means any remaining suitors will disappear too. But of course he knows it, he’s known it from the moment he entered the room.

Kirios Demou runs his eyes over me again. It is a cold look.

“I will tell the Council,” he says finally, and Father breathes a sigh of relief. He escorts Kirios Demou to the door, with one last look in my direction.

“Dimitra,” he calls then. “Sweep up the hair.”

And Dimitra grabs a broom from where it hangs on the wall, and scowls as she tosses it my way.

*

In the morning there is a freshness to the air, a smell of almond blossom on the breeze. They perfume brides with that scent, but no one will perfume me with that now.

The king himself has joined us; his carriage was waiting when we reached the council building. I don’t know whether to view that as a good sign or a bad one. I suppose it confirms Dimitra’s words: this is a serious matter. Father hoped yesterday to sweep it under the carpet, to attribute what happened at the temple to hysteria and weather, but if anything, today shows us just how much wishful thinking that was.

The weather is the same as yesterday’s, the views as we climb toward the summit and the temple are the same, but all I canthink is how different it is—no crowds, no cheering, no wine and songs. Now the people of Sikyon are holed up in their homes, passing gossip back and forth.

Gossip about me.

I saw the people on the streets as we set out this morning. They did not know who I was at first, not under the scarf, which only old women wear—but then they caught sight of Father and Dimitra, and they knew. That was when their eyes widened and they plucked at their neighbors’ sleeves to whisper.

If we’d had relatives in another city, perhaps Father could have sent me there—but we don’t. Father’s people have been Sikyonian for generations, and my mother, from Atlantis, was an orphan. We’re at the mercy of Sikyon and its king.

“Don’t dawdle, child,” says one of the councilmen, rousing me from my daydream.

The priests have had no word we were coming. Only one of them is out raking the olive trees, catching their fruit in a bucket. The rest must all be indoors, out of the heat, attending to their holy duties. The young priestess looks surprised when she sees us, but instead of picking up her bucket and hurrying indoors, she pauses only a little while before resuming her work.

“Kneel,kori mou,” Father whispers, and I do. One of the councilmen makes his way toward the priestess and speaks in a low tone with her, while she looks from one to another of our group and nods. Then she goes inside the temple, and reappears flanked by more of her kind. The High Priestess is with them, her blind eyes turning my way as if by instinct.

“So you wish to address the goddess?” she says, drawing near me. “Then speak, child.” Her voice is scratchy, rasping in the deep summer air. I kneel, looking around at the councilmen and the king, unsure how to proceed. Will they kneel, too?

But instead they step backwards, leaving me alone in the center of a semi-circle. Is it my imagination, or is the air alreadya little cooler; are there clouds in the sky that weren’t there before?

I look at the old priestess again, and summon my voice.

“Glorious Aphrodite,” I say. It’s not the goddess’s ears I’m worried about reaching—if she’s listening, she won’t need me to shout. It is said the gods can hear a fieldmouse scurry in the grass. But the councilmen need to hear the sound of repentance in my voice, if all this is to work.

“Glorious Aphrodite,” I repeat. “To you, none can compare. I come to humble myself before you. In the shadow of the gods, we are nothing. Now see before you my bare head, shaven of its former adornment, as I seek to atone for any vanity, any offense caused.” I loosen the knot of the scarf and lift the night-cap underneath. But something doesn’t feel right.

Hair, long flowing locks of it, tumbles down my back.

Chapter Six

I gasp, and I’m not the only one. I hear Dimitra’s voice to my side, and my father’s; even the king speaks in an angry murmur.

I shake out the nightcap as if this is some prank—as if yesterday’s shorn hair could somehow have been placed inside the cap while I was sleeping—but there’s no prank. I reach a trembling hand up to my head to verify what I already know. I rake my hair between my fingers, holding it in front of my eyes. If anything, it is brighter than before. It shines between my fingers like gold.

Cursed gold.

“It cannot be! I saw it myself! With my own eyes!”

“I cut it with my own hands!”

“Kirios Demou…” My father turns, appealing for another witness. But I see him, Kirios Demou, backing away slowly, his cold eyes on me.

“I demand to know the meaning of this.” The king’s voice is tight with anger that has not yet erupted. He won’t tolerate being made a fool of, no king would.