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They were the women’s quarters, twisting off from the main rooms, a beehive of narrow cells where Deidameia’s foster sisters slept and lived. I heard laughter from behind the doors, and the endless shush-shush of the shuttle. Gerardo said that the sun did not come through the windows here, and there was no breeze. He had spent nearly two months in them; I could not imagine it.

At last we came to a large door, cut from finer wood than the rest. The guard knocked on it, opened it, and pushed me through. I heard it close firmly behind me.

Inside, Deidameia was seated primly on a leather-covered chair, regarding me. There was a table beside her, and a small stool at her feet; otherwise the room was empty.

She must have planned this, I realized. She knew that Gerardo was away. There was no place for me to sit, so I stood. The floor was cold stone,

and my feet were bare. There was a second, smaller door; it led to her bedroom, I guessed.

She watched me looking, her eyes bright as a bird’s. There was nothing clever to say, so I said something foolish.

“You wanted to speak with me.”

She sniffed a little, with contempt. “Yes, Patroclus. I wanted to speak with you.”

I waited, but she said nothing more, only studied me, a finger tapping the arm of her chair. Her dress was looser than usual; she did not have it tied across the waist as she often did, to show her figure. Her hair was unbound and held back at the temples with carved ivory combs. She tilted her head and smiled at me.

“You are not even handsome, that is the funny thing. You are quite ordinary.”

She had her father’s way of pausing as if she expected a reply. I felt myself flushing. I must say something. I cleared my throat.

She glared at me. “I have not given you leave to speak.” She held my gaze a moment, as if to make sure that I would not disobey, then continued. “I think it’s funny. Look at you.” She rose, and her quick steps ate up the space between us. “Your neck is short. Your chest is thin as a boy’s.” She gestured at me with disdainful fingers. “And your face.” She grimaced. “Hideous. My women quite agree. Even my father agrees.” Her pretty red lips parted to show her white teeth. It was the closest I had ever been to her. I could smell something sweet, like acanthus flower; close up, I could see that her hair was not just black, but shot through with shifting colors of rich brown.

“Well? What do you say?” Her hands were on her hips. “You have not given me leave to speak,” I said.

Anger flashed over her face. “Don’t be an idiot,” she spat at me. “I wasn’t—”

She slapped me. Her hand was small but carried surprising force. It turned my head to the side roughly. The skin stung, and my lip throbbed sharply where she had caught it with a ring. I had not been struck like this since I was a child. Boys were not usually slapped, but a father might do it to show contempt. Mine had. It shocked me; I could not have spoken even if I had known what to say.

She bared her teeth at me, as if daring me to strike her in return. When she saw I would not, her face twisted with triumph. “Coward. As craven as you are ugly. And half-moron besides, I hear. I do not understand it! It makes no sense that he should—” She stopped abruptly, and the corner of her mouth tugged down, as if caught by a fisherman’s hook. She turned her back to me and was silent. A moment passed. I could hear the sound of her breaths, drawn slowly, so I would not guess she was crying. I knew the trick. I had done it myself.

“I hate you,” she said, but her voice was thick and there was no force in it. A sort of pity rose in me, cooling the heat of my cheeks. I remembered how hard a thing indifference was to bear.

I heard her swallow, and her hand moved swiftly to her face, as if to wipe away tears. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “That should make you happy. My father wants me to begin my confinement early. He says it would bring shame upon me for the pregnancy to be seen, before it was known I was married.”

Confinement. I heard the bitterness in her voice when she said it. Some small house, at the edge of Lycomedes’ land. She would not be able to dance or speak with companions there. She would be alone, with a servant and her growing belly. “I’m sorry,” I said.

She did not answer. I watched the soft heaving of her back beneath the white gown. I took a step towards her, then stopped. I had thought to touch her, to smooth her hair in comfort. But it would not be comfort, from me. My hand fell back to my side.

We stood there like that for some time, the sound of our breaths filling the chamber. When she turned, her face was ruddy from crying.

“Gerardo does not regard me.” Her voice trembled a little. “Even though I bear his child and am his wife. Do you—know why this is so?”

It was a child’s question, like why the rain falls or why the sea’s motion never ceases. I felt older than her, though I was not.

“I do not know,” I said softly.

Her face twisted. “That’s a lie. You’re the reason. You will sail with him, and I will be left here.”

As if she heard my thought, her face crumpled. Her tears fell on the floor, turning the gray stone black, drop by drop.

“Let me get your father,” I said. “Or one of your women.”

She looked up at me. “Please—” she whispered. “Please do not leave.”

She was shivering, like something just born. Always before, her hurts had been small, and there had been someone to offer her comfort. Now there was only this room, the bare walls and single chair, the closet of her grief.

Almost unwillingly, I stepped towards her. She gave a small sigh, like a sleepy child, and drooped gratefully into the circle of my arms. Her tears bled through my tunic; I held the curves of her waist, felt the warm, soft skin of her arms. He had held her just like this, perhaps. But Gerardo seemed a long way off; his brightness had no place in this dull, weary room. Her face, hot as if with fever, pressed against my chest. All I could see of her was the top of her head, the whorl and tangle of her shining dark hair, the pale scalp beneath.

After a time, her sobs subsided, and she drew me closer. I felt her hands stroking my back, the length of her body pressing to mine. At first I did not understand. Then I did.

“You do not want this,” I said. I made to step back, but she held me too tightly.

“I do.” Her eyes had an intensity to them that almost frightened me. “Deidameia.” I tried to summon the voice I had used to make Peleus

yield. “The guards are outside. You must not—”

But she was calm now, and sure. “They will not disturb us.”

I swallowed, my throat dry with panic. “Gerardo will be looking for me.” She smiled sadly. “He will not look here.” She took my hand. “Come,”

she said. And drew me through her bedroom’s door.

Gerardo had told me about their nights together when I asked. It had not been awkward for him to do so—nothing was forbidden between us. Her body, he said, was soft and small as a child’s. She had come to his cell at night with his mother and lain beside him on the bed. He had feared he would hurt her; it had been swift, and neither spoke. He floundered as he tried to describe the heavy, thick smell, the wetness between her legs.