“Who indeed,” I grumble.
Sura is Head of Hestia House. She’s a tall sliver of a woman with hair the color of poppy seeds and eyes the color of honeydew. She’s been Head of House for as long as I can remember, and in that time, I’ve never seen her display any kind of magical godpower. There are rumors about who her godparent is, but none of them based on any kind of proof.
If Hestia is my surrogate godparent, Sura is my doting aunt—helpful, caring, and always on the brink of being scandalized.
“I made you a flower crown for tonight,” she adds.
“Which one is mine?” I ask and look worryingly at the twin crowns on the worn wood table. One is braided with hibiscus flowers, the other moon roses and baby’s breath that seems to change color depending on where I stand.
I’m stalling because I don’t want to touch either. I’m too afraid of what’ll happen if I do, and more afraid of what’ll happen if Sura learns this secret.
Will I be tossed out of Hestia House? The Virgin Goddess is literally known for giving life to the home and if I’m killing things left and right....
Funny that on a daily basis, I think about what life might be like outside the house of the Virgin Goddess, but when faced with the possibility, I want to curl into a ball beneath my bed and never come out. For as much as I want things to be different, mostly I want to belong where I am.
“What do you plan to wear?” Sura asks as she shakes out peppercorn into the bubbling pot. “Take whatever crown matches best.”
“I was planning to wear this.”
Sura turns away from the hearth to face me and shrinks back in a hiss. “Anastasha Hearthtender! You can’t possibly wear that to the ceremony!”
I look down at the black leggings and the white cotton blouse sewn by Sura’s very hands. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s too...too...well!” She huffs and flits away. I follow her down the soaring, arched hallway. Morning light spills across the stone floor through the windows on my right. When we were children, Clea and I used to sing “Bless Me Aphrodite” at the top of our lungs in the hall and giggle when our voices rang back to us.
Sura turns left into my bedroom. As the eldest daughter still in Hestia’s house, I have the best room. There’s a sitting room with a giant hearth lit with Eternal Flame and two extremely comfy slipper chairs that I’ve fallen asleep in more times than I can count.
Through an archway trimmed in white sandstone sits my bed, the four posts of which are dressed in curling ivy that sometimes perfume the air with the smell of honey and sunshine.
I left the balcony doors open when I went out this morning and now a fresh breeze steals in, bringing with it the crisper, earthier scent of Lake Nisa down the hill and across the boulevard.
Down below in the street, Gregor the baker is shouting, “Fresh pastry! Sweet treats!” Two bluebirds flit past the balcony and chirp at one another before disappearing from sight.
Sura is already inside my dressing room flipping through hangers.
“No. No. No.” She harrumphs and switches sides. “Here we are. This is more in line with a choosing ceremony.” She holds up a long blue dress the color of lagoon water. It’s sleeveless and backless and the material is so silky and thin, it’ll likely mold to the hollow of my belly button.
I scowl. “I’m only attending the ceremony to stoke the flame. Do I really need to dress up?”
Sura wrinkles her nose at me. “Being a daughter of Hestia’s House and stoking the flame is an important position to have. Our participation in the event is a tribute to our goddess mother. You can’t show up in rags!”
I gesture at the blouse. “You made this for me!”
“Out of rags!”
I turn to look out the window so Sura won’t see my oh-so-goddess-like eye roll and then sigh in resignation. There really is no point in arguing about this. As much as I might wish to be comfortable, I know that every female descendant of age will be wearing something similar to the dress Sura is laying gently on my bed. The difference is that those descendants are preparing for their future and the very real possibility that they’ll be chosen to compete for a spot among the gods’ elite inner circles.
I look more closely at the dress and try to appreciate the beautiful work. The threading is done in gold and shines like it was woven with sunlight. Sura really is a wonder with textiles.
“You will do your mother proud, Ana. The Fates have smiled upon your path since your birth.”
I snort. Sura scolds me with a cluck of her tongue.
Sura seems so sure that the Fates are guiding my path. That I’ll go to the choosing ceremony and that Hestia will pull my name from the Moirai Box lifting me to the ranks of the elite.
But a name of a descendant can only be plucked from the box if the god or goddess has previously submitted it. And in all my years, I’ve rarely seen Hestia make the effort. There isn’t much to do up there in her higher ranks. Not like there is in Ares’s House, where a chosen one can command his army. Or at Hades’s House, where there are always rogue souls to be hunted.
Would Hestia want me to serve as one of her chosen? I can’t even pick flowers. And she’s never given me any indication that I’m favored in her house. I’m more like a sturdy table that you keep around because it’s useful and practical.
No, I think if I have a destiny, it’s to remain as I am. Stuck. Unclaimed. Never belonging. And a little bit broken on top of it.
I glance up to see Sura watching me. She reads my resignation as nervousness and pats my cheek gently. “You’re a proud daughter of Hestia. You’ll serve this house well.”
I resign myself to her doting and bow my head to her. “Goddess bless you, Sura.”
“And you, my child. This day and always.” She leaves the room smiling.
The Choosing Ceremony happens every five years.
Descendants aren’t allowed to officially go to the ceremony until after their 18th birthday. For the last ceremony, I was almost a year shy of being of age, but I talked Clea into sneaking away from the house to watch the ceremony from the bushes.
We huddled there like forest animals waiting for a storm to arrive. And in a sense that’s what it is. The choosing is our most sacred and terrifying ceremony. To be chosen is to be favored by a god, but it could also be the end of your life in Olympus as you know it.
Because of the ten chosen, only one can win the ultimate gift of power and prestige in the court or legion of their god.
The rest—the losers—are stripped of whatever divine power they possess and banished to the mortal realm. And once they’re banished, the memory of them is stripped away. On Mount Olympus, to be forgotten is a fate worse than death.
Although I sometimes fantasize about something more, I would never, ever want to live in the mortal realm. I’ve heard gossip that mortals no longer talk to each other, they only talk to their phones. Their air gets harder and harder to breathe with every passing day and they’re literally killing their wildlife.
And worse yet—rarely does their food come from the earth—instead it comes from a box.
I pull on the beautiful dress. The blue silk shimmers as it pools around me.
I hardly ever have reason to dress up and the fine fabric feels too delicate for something as pedestrian as walking. But like everything Sura does it has a secret strength hidden beneath its beauty. It really is a dress fit for a chosen one.