Page 29 of Queen to the Sunless Court (Brides of Myth #2)

“You’d better believe in your luck, Calliste,” Aspasia sighed, delicately lifting the robe that shone like fresh snow in the sunlight.

“Gods, I wish I could escape like this instead of growing old and bitter while watching other women get married. No wonder Xanthippe and Hyrmina look like they drink a jug of lemon juice for breakfast.” She giggled, but her eyes were dreamy as she fixed them on the robe.

“I wish I hadn’t made my vows… but then I’m not half as pretty as you,” she chuckled again, then hummed and helped her into the garment.

As the robe wrapped around her, luxurious against her skin, Calliste felt as if she were committing sacrilege. “Aspasia,” she said, grabbing her hand. “What do I say to him? I’ve never… you know, spoken to a man.”

“Don’t speak until he asks a question, and smile.” Aspasia finished pinning up Calliste’s hair. “He’s already sent you a wedding robe—I wager this visit is a formality. Unless, of course, you say no.”

“What if I’m not good enough?”

At that, Aspasia chuckled again. “What if you are?” And then she led Calliste to a small antechamber where the priestesses usually gathered before the wedding ceremonies, drenched in sunlight streaming from the circular window beneath the roof, with painted walls, a carved bench, and silence infused with a scent of laurels and roses.

“I must go, Calliste.” She kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear.

“If you like him, don’t think twice about leaving those two bitches behind. ”

Calliste shot her a shocked look, but Aspasia only winked and disappeared behind the door.

It was a peculiar wait: half prayer and half uncertainty. She stayed motionless like a statue, hardly daring to breathe as the sunlight shifted, tracing the mural of winged Hymenaios, the god of weddings, the meandering flame of his torch illuminating the path as he led a bride to her husband.

At last, she heard them: Xanthippe’s familiar steps, and others she didn’t recognize. The doors opened and the Head Priestess entered with a solemnly sour expression, with a tall man following behind.

Calliste lowered her gaze. Showing any eagerness was a guarantee of a whipping later. She clasped her hands in front of her and waited.

“Our patron, Ariston Nasso,” Xanthippe said in a cloying tone with a hint of her usual tartness. “Whom you undoubtedly remember from the other evening. He came to officially introduce himself, and I’ve informed you of his honorable intent—”

“My thanks, but I’ll take over from here,” Ariston interrupted, clearing his throat. “I can make the introductions. If you could leave us alone…”

Calliste held her breath. In all the years she’d been at the Temple, no one dared interrupt Xanthippe—not without facing severe consequences. Yet Ariston just cut in, brushing her aside and asking her to leave. She stiffened, wondering what would happen next.

Xanthippe’s silence was long and pronounced, before she finally huffed, “Of course.” Displeasure wafting from her like a cold draft, she stalked out.

Ariston stepped forward, and the first thing she noticed about him was the well-made brown robe on his tall, narrow frame.

She would later learn that he favored dark-colored robes to hide wine stains.

Then she looked up.

His face was like stone, with grey, bloodshot eyes and an impassive expression.

His black hair was cropped short. His features were nondescript, nothing striking about them.

“Blessings.” His voice was slightly raspy beneath the steel.

“I understand this might be a surprise. A delightful one, I hope.”

She smiled, wondering if it was a question, then risked an answer. “It is both.”

His features thawed somewhat. He sat down on the bench, his gaze flicking to the mural of Hymenaios and then back to her.

“My name is Ariston, as you know. I run a small wine business that brings in reasonable money, and I’ve been considering marriage for some time.

However, I couldn’t find a suitable candidate in my circles, for a variety of reasons—” he cleared his throat “—and also because I have no interest in the tedious courting dance.”

She nodded, listening intently.

“When I saw you at dinner with Xanthippe, you piqued my curiosity. I’ll be honest with you: I’m not seeking affection or attachment, but a wife who will work hard at my side. In return, I’ll ensure you’re well-fed and sheltered. It’s a fair deal.”

That he was candid about his expectations didn’t put her off. If he had claimed to be in love with her, she’d know it was a lie. This was a practical arrangement for her as well—and a chance to escape Xanthippe. “Sounds fair to me,” she replied.

He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re an orphan, correct?”

“I was left here at two summers old and haven’t been outside the temple.”

“That’s what Xanthippe said,” he nodded in approval. “You’re the perfect candidate for me. If you accept, I’ll talk to Xanthippe about the avowal ceremony.”

After years of being told she wasn’t good enough, clever enough, or fast enough, hearing that she was perfect was exhilarating. For the first time, she had a choice and could decide in her favor. It overshadowed everything, and she didn’t question her fortune. Quietly, she said, “I accept.”

“Excellent. I can’t wait to welcome you to my house and your future household,” he said in a formal tone. He rose and hooked his thumb behind his wide leather belt, still studying her as he rubbed his clean-shaven chin, then bowed his head and left.

She stood there for an unquantifiable time, dazed, subconsciously expecting Hyrmina to burst in and drag her out by the hair, yelling about neglected duties. But that never happened.

Because, she found out later, by accepting Ariston, she was no longer a servant.

When she looked at the mural again, Hymenaios was still smiling at the bride he led, his torch as bright as ever—but somehow, his smile seemed infinitely sad.