Penelope and Telemachus still did not speak to each other. Hour after hour, meal after meal, the air between them was brittle. It seemed absurd to me that they did not just confess their faults and sorrows and be done. But they were like eggs, each afraid to crack the other.
In the afternoons, Telemachus always seemed to find some task that brought him near, and we would talk until the sun touched the sea. When I went inside to set out the plates for dinner, he followed. If there was work enough for two, he helped. If there was not, he sat at the hearth carving small pieces of wood: a bull, a bird, a whale breaching the waves. His hands had a precise, careful economy that I admired. He was no witch, but he had the temperament for it. I told him that the floor would clean itself, but he always swept the sawdust and wood-curls after.
It was strange to have such constant company. Telegonus and I had mostly kept out of each other’s way, and my nymphs had been more like shadows flitting at the corner of my eye. Usually even that much presence wore on me, nagging at my attention until I had to leave and walk the island alone. But there was a contained quality to Telemachus, a quiet assurance that made him companionable without being intrusive. The creature he most reminded me of, I realized, was my lion. They had the same upright dignity, the same steady gaze with deep-set humor. Even the same earthbound grace, which pursued their own ends while I pursued mine.
“What’s so funny?” he asked me.
I shook my head.
It was perhaps the sixth day since they had come. He was making an olive tree, shaping the twisting trunk, picking out each knot and hole with his knife’s point.
“Do you miss Ithaca?” I asked him.
He considered. “I miss those I knew. And I am sorry not to see my goats breed.” He paused. “I think I would not have been a bad king.”
“Telemachus the Just,” I said.
He smiled. “That’s what they call you if you’re so boring they can’t think of something better.”
“I think you would be a good king also,” I said. “Perhaps you still can be. The memories of men are short. You could return in glory as the long-awaited heir, bringing prosperity with the rightness of your blood.”
“It sounds like a good story,” he said. “But what would I do in those rooms that my father and the suitors filled up? Every step would be a memory I wished I did not have.”
“It must be difficult for you to be near Telegonus.”
His brow creased. “Why would it be?”
“Because he looks so much like your father.”
He laughed. “What are you talking about? Telegonus is stamped from you. I do not just mean your face. It is your gestures, your walk. Your way of speaking, even your voice.”
“You make it sound like a curse,” I said.
“It is no curse,” he said.
Our eyes met across the air. Far away, my hands were peeling pomegranates for dinner. Methodically, I scored the rind, revealed the white lattice. Within, the red juice pips glowed through their waxy cells. My mouth stung a little with thirst. I had been watching myself with him. It was a novelty to me, noticing the expressions shaping themselves on my face, the movement of the words across my tongue. So much of my life had been spent plunged up to the elbows, tacking now here, now there, spattered and impulsive. This new feeling crept over me like a sort of distant sleepiness, almost a languor. This was not the first speaking look that he had given me. But what did it matter? My son was his brother. His father had been in my bed. He was owed to Athena. I knew it, even if he did not.
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?”