For one delirious moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to have my name plucked from the Moirai Box, to be chosen by a god and the Fates.
To be revered and wanted.
I glance at myself one last time in the mirror and run my hands over the curves of my hips.
For one delirious moment, I think I even look the part. But as soon as I meet my own eyes in the mirror, I remember who I am. Not a lionized descendant destined for greatness, but an unwanted orphan, abandoned and forgotten.
Then I shake my head and turn away from the mirror.
Chapter 3
I meet Clea at the front stairs. She’s clutching both our flower crowns in hand. When I reach her, she holds out the crown and I’m silently grateful as she places it snugly on my head.
“Beautiful,” she says.
“As are you.” She looks resplendent in a dress that’s both similar to my own in style and yet wholly different on her willowy frame. Her softness makes the dress flow around her in waves of trapped moonlight.
“Confession: I’m not sure I’m ready to face them all,” Clea whispers to me. “To know that our godparents must be among them and that he or she refuses to claim us?”
I’m surprised to hear Clea voice such thoughts. This is, of course, the exact same thing I’ve been worrying over since the day I came of age, but Clea is usually all sunshine and cheer. She’s a true daughter of Hestia, if ever there was such a thing.
“We’re daughters of the Virgin Goddess today and shall be always,” I say, to comfort myself as much as her.
Clea looks up at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach the green of her eyes. The emeralds hanging from her ears swing when she nods her head. “You’re right, of course. And tonight, let’s make the most of it.”
Though Clea and I are vastly different, there is one thing we both understand about each other: We’re unwanted daughters who have everything we could ever want or need, but yet still hunger for more.
One of the younger orphans opens the giant door before us. She bows her head in respect. “May the night treat you well, sisters,” she says.
“And you, little Marigold.” I pat her head as we pass. She’s been at the house nearly ten years now, but I can’t stop seeing her as the wailing chubby baby who arrived at our doorstep swaddled in sheepskin and smelling like milkweed.
Outside and down the wide marble steps, Clea and I follow the stone path that winds back and forth down the hill to the boulevard. We both glance back when we hear giggles coming from the hydrangea bushes next to the house.
“Clea, you don’t think the young daughters of Hestia House could be skipping their lessons, do you?” I say.
The giggling goes silent. Currently Hestia’s House has sixteen orphans within its care, including Clea and me, and I’d guess at least a dozen of them are currently in the bushes.
“Not the young daughters of this house,” Clea says with mock seriousness as she loops her arm through mine and heads us toward the lake.
“And they certainly won’t be hiding in the willow trees along the clearing at sunrise,” I add in a voice meant to carry back to the chattering bushes. Clea laughs at my encouragement of their naughty behavior but we both know it’s tradition, spoken or not. And traditions are in the blood of us Olympians.
As we reach the boulevard, Hestia House fading behind us, I’m reminded of how beautiful the heart of Olympus can be just before moonrise. Rarely am I out this late. As one of the Gods of Light, Hestia’s work is almost always done in the daytime.
Silver moonrays pool over the thatched shop roofs. Everything is closed now in honor of the ceremony. In this dim and eerie light, I can feel the magic in the air. It coaxes us toward Lake Nisa and the amphitheater on its eastern shore where a row of gold thrones will be waiting for the gods and goddesses to take their places and choose their possible champions.
As we cross the street, Clea leans into me and whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course,” I say distantly, sure that whatever secret Clea has, it’s not likely to be juicy.
We live lives as shuttered as Deion’s Bakery in front of us. I take in a deep breath and detect the smell of fresh dough and yeast. Gods, I love bread. Sura says past the God Gate into the mortal realm, humans have begun to shun bread.
One more reason why I will never ever go there.
I’d gladly eat my weight in bread. Ten times over.
“...and he said he loved me.”
“Wait, what?” I pull to a stop. “Who did?”
Clea sighs. “Were you listening to me?”
“Yes! Well...half. I was half listening. Who told you he loved you?”
“Kahne!”
“The son of Ares?”
“The very same.”
“No.” I tug Clea across the street. We slip between the bakery and sweets shop and take the stone steps down to the shore of Lake Nisa. The ducks quack at us as we pass. Giant cattails stand tall and proud along the water’s edge. “When did you speak to Kahne? When have you even had time to supposedly fall in love?”
“We’ve been writing each other letters,” Clea says.
“Well that’s ridiculous.”
In the pool of light cast by one of the golden lanterns, Clea frowns, blonde brows deeply furrowed. “That’s not very nice, Ana.”
We enter the woods that run between Lake Nisa and the city. On hot days, Clea and I come here to pick the pink and yellow primroses that grow beneath the trees. The shade is a godsend. Now the winding trail is lit every six feet by lanterns made from the pulp of silverwood.
“Clea,” I say and try to sound as reasonable as I can and not as judgmental as I feel, “all of the sons of the dark gods are savage, cruel beasts. It must be a joke. Surely you can see that?”
“Well, I—” Clea trips over an exposed tree root and abruptly grabs my arm. I’m not prepared for the sudden tug of her weight and she yanks me down with her. We both go sprawling on the forest floor.
“Oh, gods. I’m so sorry, Ana!”
“It’s all right.” I hurry to my feet and lean down to help her up as laughter rings out nearby. Not the sweet laughter of the young daughters excited to see the choosing but a reedy, mocking laughter.
“I know they don’t teach you much at Hestia House,” the girl says, “but at the very least I’d think walking was included.” A girl in a long white dress, with fine gold rope crisscrossing her slender body steps out in front of us. There’s a sneer on her otherwise perfect face. Two boys, still cloaked in shadows, walk up behind her.
“Now Lyantha, you shouldn’t taunt,” the taller of the two boys says. “You know these poor girls have spent most of their lives on their knees picking flowers. They’ve little need of walking.” His dark eyes spark as he rakes up and down my body and then Clea’s.
“You’re right, Pearce,” Lyantha says.
I’m not sure I recognize the girl, but she smells like Hades, like cinnamon and campfire smoke.
I look to the second boy who approached, who so far has been silent. But as he comes into the halo of lantern light, I suck in a breath. My blood goes cold. Clea trembles beside me.