Page 7 of A Spark in Time (A Knights Through Time Romance #21)

D awn came with hands on her body.

“Arms up, blessed one.” The slave woman’s fingers were rough as sandpaper, efficient as a factory worker’s. She pulled Bebe’s sleeping tunic over her head without ceremony, leaving her naked in the cool morning air as she grabbed the ring, still wrapped in fabric and held it in her fist.

Bebe crossed her arms instinctively, but the woman—Theano, she’d learned—simply pried them apart and began rubbing oil into her shoulders.

The smell hit first—roses mixed with something medicinal, sharp enough to clear her sinuses.

The oil was warm, almost hot, and Theano’s hands worked it into her skin with the same enthusiasm a baker would knead dough.

“This really isn’t necessary—” Bebe started.

“The Siren must shine,” Theano interrupted, moving to her arms, pressing thumbs into muscles Bebe didn’t know were sore. “The people expect divinity.”

Divinity apparently requires marinating like a Christmas ham.

Roman baths had seemed decadent enough when she’d toured Italy last summer, tiled ruins echoing with ghosts of emperors. But this was no museum exhibit. This was her body turned into public property, oiled and offered up for the crowd’s belief.

Another pair of hands joined—a younger slave who began working oil into Bebe’s back while Theano moved to her legs. Being touched by strangers while naked wasn’t exactly on her list of comfortable experiences, somewhere between seeing a doctor and tea with her mother’s temperance league.

“The arms, hold them out,” Theano commanded.

Bebe obeyed, feeling ridiculous as they rubbed oil into her forearms, between her fingers, even behind her ears as she retied the scrap of fabric around her waist. When the older woman cocked an eyebrow, Bebe told her it was a talisman.

Satisfied the woman nodded. The younger slave giggled when Bebe flinched at fingers in her armpits.

“Ticklish goddess,” the girl whispered in Greek. “Who knew?”

Next came the hair. They’d given up trying to style her bob properly, but that didn’t stop them from trying to make it “divine.” Silver ribbons, thin as spider silk, were braided through the short strands.

The ribbons had tiny bells attached—Bebe heard them tinkling with every movement, like she was a particularly expensive cat toy.

“Now jewelry.” Theano produced a box that could have ransomed a small city-state.

First, the arm bands—heavy gold serpents that coiled from wrist to elbow.

Then the necklaces, layer upon layer, until her collarbones disappeared under the weight.

Rings for every finger, even her thumbs.

Ankle bracelets that chimed when she walked.

By the time they finished, she felt like she was wearing half the treasury of Athens.

“Can I at least have breakfast before the costume parade continues?” Bebe asked.

Theano looked scandalized. “The Siren does not eat common food before receiving suppliants.”

“The Siren is about to faint from hunger.” She grumbled.

“Divine hunger. Very mystical.”

I’m going to divine hunger my fist into something if I don’t get coffee. Or wine. Or literally anything.

The morning sun slanted through the marble columns, casting long shadows across the courtyard where they finally led her. A cushioned bench waited—her throne for the morning performance. The purple silk cushions were beautiful.

The courtyard already buzzed with activity. Athenian citizens clustered in small groups, their voices a low murmur punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement when someone spotted her. The bells in her hair announced every turn of her head, making subtlety impossible.

“More wine, blessed one?” The serving girl—Daphne, a sweet thing with eyes like a deer—held out a silver goblet that caught the light like liquid mercury.

Bebe took it gratefully, the sweet honeyed wine nothing like the gin rickeys she favored back home, but it did take the edge off her growling stomach. She caught Daphne staring at the silver ribbons in her hair, the way they caught the light.

“Pretty impractical, right?” Bebe said in her stilted Greek.

Daphne’s eyes widened at being addressed directly. “The blessed one shines like moonlight on water.”

“The blessed one feels like a decorated lampshade.”

A laugh—quickly stifled—escaped the girl before she scurried away.

Women approached with offerings, and Bebe found herself playing the part, touching each gift like it mattered.

Fresh figs that burst sweet and sticky on her tongue—at least she was getting breakfast, even if it came with worship.

She let the juice run down her fingers, licking them clean in a way that would have horrified her mother but seemed to delight the crowd.

A jar of honey came next. She dipped her finger in, tasted it—thick and floral, nothing like the processed stuff from Gimbels. It coated her throat, sweet enough to make her teeth ache. The woman who’d brought it actually wept when Bebe nodded approval.

Olive oil in a dozen varieties—she touched each one, the oils leaving her fingers slick and perfumed. One smelled of lavender, another of mint, a third of something spicy that made her nose tingle. She wondered what would happen if she asked for bacon and eggs instead.

A merchant pressed forward, his arms laden with bolts of silk that whispered against each other like conspirators.

“For the Silver Siren,” he declared, unfurling fabric the color of sea foam.

“From the looms of Damascus, blessed one. Surely the gods would smile upon such beauty adorning their messenger.”

Bebe ran the silk through her fingers—cool and impossibly smooth, finer than anything she’d worn to even the fanciest parties. It reminded her of water, the way it flowed over her oil-slick hands. She held it up to the light, could see her hand through it like looking through morning mist.

“Beautiful,” she said honestly, then caught herself. Divine messengers probably didn’t gush over fabric.

“The Silver Siren accepts your gift with gratitude,” Lysias appeared at her elbow, materialized from nowhere like he did. His voice carried that smooth authority that made her teeth itch and her pulse skip in equal measure.

He wore a fresh chiton today, white linen that set off the bronze of his skin and made his dark eyes look almost black in the morning light.

He’d been training—she could see the sheen of sweat at his throat, could smell the leather and metal tang that clung to him.

When he reached past her to accept the silk formally, his arm brushed hers, warm through the oil, and she nearly jumped.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough only she could hear. “Divinity doesn’t startle.”

“Divinity wants breakfast,” she shot back under her breath.

His mouth twitched—almost a smile—before he turned back to the merchant with proper solemnity.

She watched him work the crowd, all smooth authority and calculated charm.

But twice, she caught him looking at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.

The first time, his gaze lingered on her throat where the necklaces lay heavy against her pulse.

The second time, he was staring at her hands—she’d been absently playing with the silk, running it through her fingers like water, and his expression was.

.. odd. Intense. Like she was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“You need to eat more,” he said suddenly, appearing at her side again. “You’re too pale.”

“I’m always pale. Flapper aesthetic doesn’t really go for the sun-kissed look.”

“Flapper?” He tested the foreign word.

“Never mind. Far away thing.”

He picked up a fig from one of the offering bowls, held it out to her. Such a simple gesture, but the way he did it—his fingers steady, eyes on hers—made it feel weighted with meaning.

She took it, their fingers brushing. His were calloused from sword work, rough against her oil-softened skin. The contact lasted a heartbeat too long to be accidental.

“The people need to see you accept their offerings,” he said, but his voice had dropped half an octave. “Eat.”

She bit into the fig, the sweetness bursting on her tongue, and his eyes tracked the movement. Watched her lick juice from her lips. The crowd might have disappeared for all she was aware of them.

“Better?” she asked.

“No,” he said quietly, and she wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

A commotion at the courtyard entrance broke the moment. More suppliants, more offerings. Lysias stepped back to his proper distance, but she could still feel the ghost of his touch on her fingers.

The morning wore on. They brought her scrolls—she pretended to read the sacred Greek though half the words swam before her eyes.

They brought her more wine—she sipped it carefully, aware that divine messengers probably shouldn’t get sloshed before noon.

They brought her flowers—roses and jasmine and something white that made her eyes water with its sweetness.

“You need to learn to write prophecy,” Lysias said during a lull, producing a wax tablet and stylus. “The Archons will expect it.”

He moved behind her on the bench, reaching around to position her hands correctly on the stylus. The proper Greek way, apparently, was nothing like holding a pen. His chest pressed against her back, solid and warm, and she could feel his heartbeat through the thin linen.

“Like this,” he said, his breath stirring the bells in her hair. “Press firmly but don’t break the wax.”

His hand covered hers, guiding the stylus through the first letter. The wax gave under the pressure, leaving a clean mark. Alpha. Beginning.

“Now you,” he said, but didn’t move away.

She tried to focus on the tablet, not on the heat of him behind her, the way his thumb rested against her wrist where her pulse hammered. She drew the letter again, shakier this time.

“Your hands are trembling,” he observed.

“It’s the jewelry. Very heavy.”

“Liar.” The word was soft, almost affectionate. Almost.