Outside, the seasons had turned. The sky opened its hands, and the earth swelled to meet it. The light poured thickly down, coating us in gold. The sea lagged only a little behind. At breakfast Telegonus clapped his brother on the back. “In another few days, we can take the boat out in the bay.”
I felt Penelope’s glance. How far does the spell extend?
I did not know. Somewhere beyond the breakers, but I could not name the exact wave. I said, “Don’t forget, Telegonus, there’s always one last bad storm. Wait till then.”
As if in answer, a knock sounded on the door.
In the silence that followed Telegonus whispered, “The wolves did not howl.”
“No.” I did not look at Penelope in warning; if she did not guess, she was a fool. I drew my divinity up, cold and bracing around me, and went to open the door.
Those same black eyes, that same perfect and handsome face. I heard my son gasp, felt the frozen stillness behind me.
“Daughter of Helios. May I come in?”
“No.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I have a message that concerns one of your guests.”
I felt a grating fear along my ribs, but I kept my voice flat. “They can hear you where you stand.”
“Very well.” His skin glowed. His drawling, smirking manner vanished. This was the divine messenger of the gods, potent and inevitable.
“Telemachus, prince of Ithaca, I come on behalf of the great goddess Athena, who would speak with you. She requires that the witch Circe lower the spell that bars her from the isle.”
“Requires,” I said. “That is an interesting word for one who tried to kill my son. Who is to say she does not plan to try again?”
“She is not interested in your son in the least.” He dropped his glory. His voice was casual once more. “If you will be a fool about it—these are her words, of course—she offers an oath of protection for him. It is Telemachus alone she wants. It is time for him to take his inheritance.” He looked past me to the table. “Do you hear, prince?”
Telemachus’ eyes were lowered. “I hear. I am humbled by messenger and message both. But I am a guest on this island. I must await my hostess’ word.”
Hermes cocked his head a little, his eyes intent. “Well, hostess?”
I felt Penelope at my back, risen like an autumn moon. She had asked for time to mend things with Telemachus, and she had not done it yet. I could imagine her bitter thoughts.
“I will do it,” I said. “But it will take some effort to unwind the spell’s working. She may expect to come in three days.”
“You want me to tell the daughter of Zeus she has to wait three days?”
“They have been here half a month. If she was in a hurry, she should have sent you earlier. And you may tell her those are my words.”
Amusement flashed in his eyes. I had fed off that look once, when I had been starving and thought such crumbs a feast. “Be sure I will.”
We breathed into the empty space he left behind. Penelope met my eye. “Thank you,” she said. Then she turned to Telemachus. “Son.” It was the first time I had heard her speak to him directly. “I have made you wait too long. Will you walk with me?”
Chapter Twenty-four
WE WATCHED THEM GO down the path to the shore. Telemachus looked half stunned, but that was only natural. He had learned he was Athena’s chosen and would make peace with his mother in the same moment. I had wanted to say something to him before he left, but no words had come.
Telegonus bumped at my elbow. “What did Hermes mean, ‘Telemachus’ inheritance’?”
I shook my head. Just that morning, I had seen the first green buds of spring. Athena had timed it well. She came as soon as she could make Telemachus sail.
“I am surprised the spell takes three days to undo. Can’t you use that—what’s it called? Moly?”
I turned to him. “You know my spells are governed by my will. If I let go, they will fall in a second. So no, it does not take three days.”
He frowned. “You lied to Hermes? Won’t Athena be angry when she finds out?”
His innocence could still frighten me. “I do not plan to tell her. Telegonus, these are gods. You must keep your tricks close or you will lose everything.”
“You did it so they would have time to talk,” he said. “Penelope and Telemachus.”
Young he was, but not a fool. “Something like that.”
He tapped his finger on the shutters. The lions did not stir; they knew the noise of his restlessness well. “Will we see them again? If they leave?”
“I think you will,” I said. If he heard the change I made, he said nothing. I could feel my chest heaving a little. It had been so long since I had spoken to Hermes, I’d forgotten the effort it took to face down that shrewd, all-seeing gaze.
He said, “Do you think Athena will try to kill me?”
“She must swear an oath before she comes, she will be bound by it. But I will have the spear, in case.”
I made my hands work through their chores, plates and washing and weeding. When it began to grow dark, I packed a basket of food and sent Telegonus to find Penelope and Telemachus.
“Don’t linger,” I said. “They should be alone.”
He reddened. “I’m not an idiot child.”
I drew in a breath. “I know you are not.”
I paced while he was gone. I could not explain the stinging tension I felt. I had known he would be leaving. I had known all along.
Penelope returned when the moon rose. “I am grateful to you,” she said. “Life is not so simple as a loom. What you weave, you cannot unravel with a tug. But I think I have made a start. Is it wrong of me to confess that I enjoyed watching you set Hermes back?”
“I have a confession of my own. I am not sorry to let Athena twist for three days.”
She smiled. “Thank you. Again.”
Telegonus sat at the hearth fletching arrows, but he had scarcely managed a handful. He was as restless as I was, scuffing at the stones, staring out of the window at the empty garden path as if Hermes might appear again. I cleaned the tables that did not need cleaning. I set my pots of herbs now here, now there. Penelope’s black mourning cloak hung from the loom, nearly finished. I could have sat and worked awhile, but the change of hands would show in the cloth. “I am going out,” I told Telegonus. And before he could speak, I left.
My feet carried me to a small hollow I knew among the oaks and olives. The branches made good shade, and the grass grew soft. You could listen to the night birds overhead.
He was sitting on a fallen tree, outlined against the dark.
“Do I disturb you?”
“No,” he said.
I sat beside him. Beneath my feet the grass was cool and faintly damp. The owls cried in the distance, still hungry from winter’s scarcity.
“My mother told me what you did for us. Both now and before. Thank you.”
“I am glad if it helped.”
He nodded, faintly. “She has been three leagues ahead, as always.”
Over us the branches stirred, carving the moon into slivers.