Page 28 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

A Stroke of Luck

Calliste

Anthemos, twelve years earlier

“Calliste.”

Hyrmina’s voice always carried a peculiar blend of scolding and impatience, especially sharp when she disliked someone. She was versed in demonstrating her dislikes, and she had never liked Calliste. “Head Priestess Xanthippe wants to see you immediately.”

It was pointless to ask why. Hyrmina never shared her information, hoarding it like some hoarded gold.

Calliste set aside the reed broom, inspecting the inner stone courtyard of Hera’s Grand Temple. It gleamed, and even Hyrmina couldn’t find fault with it—not that she wouldn’t try.

Hyrmina’s eyes swept the sun-drenched courtyard with the same scrutiny as Calliste’s broom, then she shrugged. “Faster, you useless cow. You should know no one keeps Xanthippe waiting.”

Her stomach like an icy pit already, Calliste followed the old priestess through the stone gates into the main building of Hera’s Temple, wondering why the Head Priestess wanted to speak to her at such an unusual time and frantically trying to recall any missteps she might have made, but nothing came to mind.

She couldn’t afford missteps to start with—not after owing the Temple so much.

Xanthippe’s study was immaculate as always, thanks to Calliste’s efforts every dawn.

The Head Priestess of Hera’s Temple cut an imposing figure behind her oaken desk.

Behind her, the marble statue of Hera stood with quiet dignity in a niche adorned with fresh flowers, which Calliste cut in the temple garden this morning.

“That will be all, Hyrmina.” Xanthippe barely looked up from the parchments.

Hyrmina pursed her lips and strode out of the room, closing the door behind her, but Calliste had no doubt that she would likely linger in the corridor, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation, and it turned her stomach, because it meant that Hyrmina—who liked to spy on everyone and always knew the latest gossip—truly didn’t know why Calliste had been called in.

Xanthippe looked up: she was a woman in her late fifties, with a narrow face as if frozen in a grimace of displeasure who never wasted a single word, her moves always purposeful and minimal. “Don’t just stand there, staring at me,” she snarled. “Sit.”

Calliste glanced at the stool, a wave of nervousness washing over her.

Xanthippe rarely concerned herself with anyone’s comfort, least of all hers.

Asking her to sit down was... unusual. But Xanthippe never tolerated anything less than immediate execution of her orders, so Calliste obediently perched on the stool, feeling Xanthippe’s gaze focusing wholly on her.

“Remind me how long you’ve been here.”

Another surprising question, as Xanthippe never forgot anything. In fact, she habitually reminded every servant and novice of their good fortune in serving the Temple.

“Seventeen years, Head Priestess.” It felt like a lifetime; hard to remember sometimes that she was nineteen summers old.

“Correct. I’m pleased my guidance has produced such good results. You’re quick, thorough, obedient. A valuable asset to my Temple.” She paused, contemplating her for a moment.

I’m quick because I’ve always needed to be faster than your whip, and I’m thorough and obedient for the same reason.

It was a bitter reflection, but as a foundling of two summers left at a temple’s doorstep, she’d had to outshine the initiates in hopes that one day, she would earn enough to repay her debt to the Temple and leave.

Until that day, she had to grit her teeth and appease Xanthippe’s demands, which sometimes bordered on impossible.

She recited the usual, smooth reply. “I’m grateful to the Temple for providing me with shelter and education.

I hope to repay your kindness with my service one day, even if that day is distant. ”

Xanthippe’s nostrils flared. “I had a visit from Ariston Nasso today. Do you remember him?”

For a moment, Calliste struggled with the sudden shift in the conversation. “Ah, of course,” she smiled, careful not to make a mistake. It wasn’t that she didn’t remember Ariston: a patron of the temple, whom she’d met eight weeks earlier when she’d served wine at Xanthippe’s dinner.

“Well, what do you think of him?” Xanthippe asked, tapping her foot.

Calliste raised her chin, sensing impatience in her voice.

“I… think he’s a pleasant man.” He had spoken to her a couple of times, politely, jokingly asking not to water down his wine too much.

All she could remember were his large hands, marbled with blue veins visible beneath his pale skin, because she didn’t dare look him in the face—Xanthippe would whip her if she even raised her eyes higher than she should.

“Right. Apparently, he’s been wanting to marry for a long time, but he couldn’t find the right woman. That has changed recently, I’m told.”

Calliste bowed her head, waiting, still trying to find the thread connecting it to her.

A patch of sunlight blazed in front of her on the spotless marble floor and she stared at it for long enough for her eyes to water, still puzzled why Xanthippe would gossip about a patron.

She pieced together a reply she hoped would satisfy Xanthippe.

“I’m truly happy for him and certain any woman he chooses as his wife will be honored. ”

“Well,” Xanthippe growled. “Yes. That would be you.”

Still staring at the tiles, Calliste wondered if she had misheard her. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Xanthippe said grudgingly, as if forcing out each word. “He made a special request after seeing you at that dinner five weeks ago…”

Eight , Calliste thought, not daring to correct her. She’d learned long ago that correcting Xanthippe always came with a bruise.

“He asked if I would release you from the temple for marriage. Since you’re of perfectly marriageable age and his intent is serious and honorable, I had to give it serious consideration.” Her words hung in the air, unmistakably sour.

Calliste still stared at the marble veining of the flagstones, the intricate map of lines she knew by heart from washing them countless times, wondering if she was dreaming. Escaping Xanthippe’s clutches had always seemed impossible, and this… this seemed too good to be true.

“Unless I make you an initiate. You’ve always wanted to be one, haven’t you? In which case he wouldn’t be allowed to marry you,” Xanthippe concluded with a tight smile. “So. Would you like to become an initiate of our Temple and serve divine Hera?”

Throughout all those years, Xanthippe had never mentioned it.

Calliste had never hoped for it, knowing she was destined to a life of servitude to repay her debt, so dangling the prospect now made it seem almost pathetic.

Even if she became an initiate, it would still take years to progress further.

Xanthippe controlled every decision in the temple, and it was entirely possible she might soon decide Calliste wasn’t suitable as an initiate and demote her back to a servant.

“Our goddess is the Patroness of Marriage,” Calliste replied slowly. “I believe that by being a good and obedient wife, I will embody her values in a sacred union that she cherishes and supports.”

Xanthippe’s face was unreadable as she stared down at Calliste—and she always had a way of glaring that made others question or retract their words.

But she seemed to restrain her usual, venomous cruelty, making Calliste wonder how much influence Ariston Nasso had over her.

“Well,” she said. “Perhaps you should meet him officially before you decide.”

“I’d love to,” she replied, ensuring she sounded as humble as Xanthippe liked.

To defeat Xanthippe with her own weapon would be gratifying, but the Head Priestess won this time as well, waving her away without any further explanation.

***

“Look at this peplos —oh, it’s so white and soft. I’ve never worn anything like it.” Aspasia spread the garment on the bed.

Calliste stroked it, awed by the smooth softness beneath her fingers. Years later, she knew there had been nothing extraordinary about it—except that it was much better quality than anything else she owned, because as a foundling raised by the Temple, she had only rags.

So in that moment, in the priestesses’ changing room faintly scented with incense and vinegar, where the idle noon sunlight warmed the bare walls and pooled on the stone beneath their feet, the white robe was a promise of a life away from scrubbing floors, Hyrmina’s venom and Xanthippe’s whip.

“Calliste?” Aspasia clapped her hands. “What are you waiting for?” She was a couple of years older than Calliste, cheerful and agreeable, and the only person Calliste had ever felt close to—and even this little friendship they had to hide from Hyrmina and Xanthippe, because Aspasia was advancing in the ranks of young priestesses while Calliste was merely a servant.

“I just hope he doesn’t change his mind,” Calliste whispered, “because if he does...” Her eyes drifted to the stone floor, which she had scrubbed with ash and sand countless times and would likely continue cleaning for years should this chance unravel.

“He won’t,” Aspasia muttered, her eyes fixed on the door. “He’s coming here to introduce himself. He wouldn’t go to all this trouble if he wasn’t serious about marrying you.”

For the past five days, Calliste had lived in a peculiar state, performing her duties as usual while constantly replaying the evening she’d met Ariston, trying to recall any detail of him—and failing.

As Xanthippe wouldn’t offer her anything else other than spiteful silence, Calliste’s hope dwindled until the package with the robe was delivered to the temple this morning, along with instructions to change so she could meet her, as Xanthippe grudgingly emphasized, potential husband.