Leaving the house is easy. Nobody raises an eyebrow; I already do the shopping, as I do everything else for the household. Stepmother hasn’t bothered even trying to hire servants for nearly a year. She complains about the fickleness of the common folk, but I think it’s a mark of good sense that none of them will stay more than a month. They may not know about my mother’s ghost—they certainly don’t know our house is haunted by demons, or a mob would have burned it down long ago—but they can tell something is wrong.
Stepmother and my sisters don’t even realize anything is wrong. They are very great fools, all three of them.
When I reach the front gate, I pause and whisper, “I’m just leaving for a little, Mother. Koré gave me a delightful errand,” because I know her spirit is bound to our house, but I don’t know if she can see into the city. And I don’t know what she would do if I left and she didn’t know why, but there are demons at her command. I can’t risk her doing anything. It’s why I have never even thought of running away.
Delivering the letter should be easy too. The minor gentry scheme and curry favor for months before they dare approach the doors to the palace of Diogenes Alector Laertius, Duke of Sardis and First Peer of the island of Arcadia. But a mere nobody like me can walk up to the servants’ gate, hand over a letter to a palace footman, and be done. That’s what I leave the house planning to do. It’s what I should do.
Except, as I trudge through the narrow, twisting streets—as I skirt the edge of the marketplace, where a hundred vendors scream their wares at once while children sing and old men beg for spare coins—as the white-and-gold filigree hulk of the duke’s palace looms larger and larger above me, I think of Koré. I think of the seams where you can see that her dress has been turned inside out and re-sewn because the fabric faded. I think of the single pearl that she wears around her neck because Stepmother sold the rest to pay for expanding the house, though that string of pearls was meant to be part of her dowry. I think of the rich ladies I’ve glimpsed walking down the street, silk and lacing rippling with every move, white kid gloves and white lace parasols gleaming in the sunshine, golden bells tinkling in their ears.
Lord Anax is heir to the greatest dukedom on the island of Arcadia. However little he cares for parties or flirtation, he must care for his station. He is selecting his future duchess, and an anonymous letter on the mail tray, no matter how erudite, hardly has a chance of influencing him. And that’s assuming the letter ever reaches him. No doubt someone sorts his mail and burns all such foolish missives (surely he receives a hundred daily) before he has to read them.
I should hand over the letter and be done with it. But the thought of getting Koré and Thea out of the house and out of danger has infected me. I try to imagine what it would be like to draw one breath without my family as hostages, and I want it more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
And this is how I’m a fool: I know what happens when I want things, but today I try anyway.
Stepmother once said that her daughters were born to be adored, and I was born to be invisible. I think she meant that I was ugly, but it’s true: my stepsisters could never pass unnoticed. Koré is too magnificent: roll her in ashes and dress her in rags, and she’d still turn heads as people wondered who was the impoverished princess. Thea is too lovable: she could pass as a servant, but let her wrinkle her forehead once, and five bystanders would demand to help.
I’m nothing but a wisp of a girl with a sharp little nose and a cloud of dull brown hair that never stays neat. Shopkeepers look past me even when I’m trying to get their attention. Now I smooth my face into my best expression of brainless docility, the one I wear when Stepmother is even angrier than usual, and I walk into the duke’s palace.
It is amazing what people will let you do when you are wearing a neat but shabby gray dress and you scuttle demurely down the hallway, body angled toward the wainscoting as if you’re about to slip into it. Everybody thinks I am someone else’s temporary help, and I even get a lean, harried man with gray hair to tell me the way to Lord Anax’s study.
But after three gaudy flights of stairs and two hallways (one covered in writhing gold bas-reliefs, one paneled in silver and mirrors), I’m getting scared. I have never been anyplace so magnificent in my life; I feel like a clump of soot smeared across the gleaming floor of the palace. There are fewer people bustling through the halls than down below, but they’re all upper servants, clad in neat black-and-white uniforms. There is no more humble wooden wainscoting for me to blend into. My back crawls with icy fear; it takes all my will not to duck behind statues and into doorways every time somebody passes me. The only thing that holds me to my steady, purposeful stride is the knowledge that if I run, I will look guilty, and if I look guilty, I will be caught, and if I am caught, I will be punished, and if I am punished, Mother will know and she can’t know, she can’t, she can’t.
My cheeks ache. I realize I’m smiling.
Finally I reach the little green-painted door that the old man described. I walk inside placidly, ease the door shut—and slump against it with a gasp of relief.
I’ve done it. I’ve successfully invited myself into Lord Anax’s personal chambers. All the smiling, silk-clad ladies in Sardis would die of envy if they knew.
No, they wouldn’t ever envy a drudge who scrubs pots every day. And I’m not successful yet: I still have to find a way to make this letter special to Lord Anax, and I have to get out of here again. Without being caught.
Then I will have to come back tomorrow, because I doubt Koré will waste an instant.
I look around the room. After the terrifying glory of the hallways, it’s surprisingly comfortable. The clock hanging by the door is gilt, the bookshelves lining the walls hold a fortune in leather-bound volumes, and the huge, lion-footed desk at the center of the room is carved of cedar that’s been polished and varnished until it gleams dark red. But books slump out of their places or teeter in piles at the edges of shelves, as if they’re often rummaged through in a hurry. The desk is awash in papers; there are stacks of books, a brass slide rule, and a skull carved out of white marble.
Every room in our house, though shabby, is kept dusted and in perfect order, not even a porcelain shepherdess or a mildewed lace doily out of place. The honor of our house will accept nothing less. This room clearly belongs to someone who doesn’t need to please anyone. I imagine Lord Anax reading in his chair, his feet resting on the desk, and I feel a sudden stab of envy that he can live so carelessly.
I step closer to the desk. The silver mail tray teeters on one corner, but just setting the letter on top won’t do. I remember the great vases full of roses on the second landing; if I had stolen some, I could mound them underneath the letter like a pyre. But would that really impress Lord Anax?
What would a duke’s son who has ignored all the blandishments of high society find intriguing?
I pick up the marble skull. It’s lighter than I expected: it’s been carved out hollow. I poke my finger into one of the eye sockets, and then I roll up the letter and poke it inside as well.
Now it looks like the skull has died by letter. It’s ridiculous, and I’m about to pull the letter out again when I hear voices outside.
The doorknob rattles.
I should stay. I should keep my gaze on the floor and my mind full of wainscoting and pretend. But my body has other ideas. A moment later I am curled beneath the desk, my heart beating wildly.
The door slams open.
“—in just a fortnight, and I will declare my chosen bride as the clock strikes twelve. That’s romance for the ladies, profit for the lucky father, and a politic gesture for you. What more, sir, could you possibly want?”
It’s the voice of a young man, well past the awkward squeaks of boyhood, polished and clipped with a nobleman’s accent. Lord Anax.
“For a start?” The second voice is equally polished but deeper, older, more languid. “A son who doesn’t insult my dearest friends.”
I stop breathing. This must be Duke Laertius.
“I didn’t insult them,” says Lord Anax. “I said I was indisposed.”
“For the birthday party of their beloved only daughter, the day after you had been seen riding to hunt. All Sardis knows you meant to snub Lydia, boy.”
“Perhaps I caught a chill on the hunt.”
“Perhaps it’s time you stopped sulking over an engagement three years broken and bore yourself like a man!” The duke’s voice snaps like a whip. “Zeus and Hera, how did I beget such an unruly son?”
“If you’ve forgotten, perhaps you could summon up the dead and ask my lady mother.”
The duke barks a laugh. “You got that tongue from her, that’s for certain. But she was obedient to me for all her carping.”
“Obedient?” says Lord Anax. The desk creaks and shifts; I think he is leaning against it. “We must remember her very differently.”
“Always when it counted, my boy, which is more than can be said of you. I wanted that girl for my daughter, you know.”
“Adopt her, then. I believe it’s legal.”
“First I’d have to kill her parents,” says the duke, “and I am given to understand that’s frowned upon these days.”
“It’s gone the same sad way as the right of a father to execute his sons.”
The duke sighs. “The girl’s still free, you know. You could have her for the asking.”
There’s a silence. When Lord Anax speaks again, his voice is low and soft. “Father. I forced Lydia to break the engagement.”
“That was transparently obvious at the time. But what has never been clear to me is why you acted like the injured party, then and ever since. Or why, if you were so brokenhearted, you did not take the few steps necessary to win her back.”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Still the soft voice.
“I understand that Cosmatos would leave her on your doorstep tied up in red ribbons if you so much as winked at her. As it is, he won’t let her accept even a nosegay from another man because you’re still unshackled and he takes that as a sign of hope.”
“Then rejoice, because in a fortnight I’ll be engaged and she’ll have her pick of suitors again.” Lord Anax is back to sounding polished and defiant.
“He’ll keep her on the shelf until you’re wed . . . mmm, and perhaps until your wife has survived her first birth. Cosmatos does not give up any more easily than I do.”
“He can keep her till she’s moldered into a skeleton. I still won’t marry her.”
“That’s a harsh fate to wish on a charming girl.”
“To be a skeleton is a high and honorable estate. Just ask Alcibiades.” I hear a whisper of movement, then a crinkle; I think Lord Anax has picked up the skull and removed the letter from its eye socket.
“Yes, very honorable, I see. So honorable that you use him to sort your mail. When will you get rid of that morbid thing?”
“Alcibiades, please don’t mind my father. He speaks to everyone this way.” From the tone of his voice, I imagine Lord Anax staring deep into the skull’s eyes.
“Then I’ll leave you to your best friend. Do remember that to get engaged at the ball, you will actually need to prevail upon the lady to accept you.”
Lord Anax’s voice is very dry. “I’m son and heir to the Duke of Sardis. I could walk into that ballroom naked with Alcibiades balanced on my head, and they’d still want to marry me.”
“Most likely. But if you try it, I’ll horsewhip you on the front steps.”
“Don’t worry. I will comport myself properly enough to please even you, sir.”
“I highly doubt that, but do feel free to try. Good day.”
Footsteps, and the door clicks shut. For a moment there’s silence, and I let myself indulge in a heartbeat of wild hope that Lord Anax has soundlessly followed his father out of the room. Then he sighs loudly. His boots clank against the floor. One step, two, three. He’s circling the desk.
My heart pounds. He’s going to see me, and if he’s angry, if he hurts me, if my mother can see this far—
Because I had to sneak into the palace. Because I had to help Koré instead of placate her. Because I had to hope, when I should know how useless hope has always been.
I’m an idiot.
He flings himself into his chair and hauls one foot up onto the desk. Just like I imagined.
Then he looks down and sees me.
He doesn’t look particularly lordly. Handsome, yes: he has jet-black hair and a face of aristocratic angles. Square metal glasses frame his narrow dark eyes. But no one can look very lordly with one foot on the floor and the other on a desk, staring down with his mouth open in surprise.
His mouth snaps shut. His foot lands back on the floor, his jaw tightening, and then he reaches down, grabs my arm, and hauls me out. I stand obediently, fixing my eyes on the shelves.
“You,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
I can still feel the fear, a cold, distant burn up and down my body, but there’s no time for terror now. I do what I always do when Stepmother gets angry: I mold my body in perfect submission, shoulders slumped and eyes demurely lowered, and I think myself out of existence. I am wallpaper and curtains and the jumbled papers on his desk. I am not real, I am not here, so there is nothing for him to get angry at.
He shakes my shoulder. “You know I can have you sacked.”
“I don’t work here.” I keep my voice meek. “I came to deliver a letter.” I point at the desk, where the crumpled letter sits next to Alcibiades.
“A letter? When your master could use the morning post? You’re here to spy or steal or—”
“A love letter,” I say. “From my lady.”
“Of course.” He releases me, looking disgusted. “Another young lady who saw me only once but loves me more than life itself. Or is she one of the ones who sees me almost every day and weeps in secret because I never lower my eyes to hers?”
“There are a lot of them?” I ask. I always imagined that girls with money and fathers would be less desperate.
“Oh, dozens, though your lady is the only one bold enough to write me directly. Most of them just recite poems to a nameless cruel beloved in my presence. Or they have their brothers write me letters demanding to know my intentions, since I was so profligate as to say ‘Good morning.’ So tell me: Was it love at first sight, or did I slowly grow in her heart like ivy?”
I open my mouth to tell him that Koré is not like the others, truly, she is—
What?
I am an excellent liar. It’s why there is any of my family left alive. But I’m so good because I know exactly what Mother wants to hear. I mostly know what Stepmother and Koré and Thea want as well, even if I can’t always give it to them. But this young man looming over me—who quarrels with his father but obeys him, who names a skull Alcibiades and mourns the betrothed he forced to abandon him—I have no idea what he wants to hear.
Lord Anax snorts. “Speechless? I suppose you didn’t spy long enough to know what kind of lady I prefer.”
I flinch. I’m so used to hiding my feelings, it feels wrong for someone to guess even a tiny bit of them. But he doesn’t notice what he’s done; he rattles on, each word bright and bitter. “Permit me to enlighten you. I am not going to fall in love with your mistress. I am not going to be charmed by your mistress. There is, in fact, nothing your mistress can do to make me marry her. My father has invited all the girls he deems remotely acceptable, and I intend to choose my bride utterly at random. Your mistress has no recourse except to make sacrifices to the gods, in which she’s unlikely to outdo Lord Cosmatos, but she is welcome to try.”
I cross my arms, trying not to shake. His anger isn’t at me anymore, nor is it that bad compared to Stepmother’s rages, but even this much bitterness in a voice sets my instincts screaming run.
But he hasn’t tried to punish me. I realize suddenly that he has no intention of punishing me. He’s only going to tell me how much he hates the ladies I represent; and however much he hates those ladies, he isn’t going to hurt them either. He’s going to marry one and make all her dreams come true.
He is furious and helpless, even though he’s the son of the duke, and I want to tell him the truth.
“Then you and my lady should suit each other perfectly,” I say. “She doesn’t love you at all and she never will.”
Speaking the truth is like gulping a mouthful of brandy: it burns on my tongue, but a moment after my body feels warmer, looser, freer.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Did I spend the last five minutes telling you how much I liked it when ladies pursued me for my title?”
“No,” I say, and without trying, without wanting in the least to save somebody, I break into a smile. “You told me how much you hate being lied to.”
Lord Anax stares at me.
“So here’s the truth: she doesn’t want your title—though it doesn’t hurt—she wants your money, and a way out of her household. She has a mother to please and a younger sister to provide for.”
My skin is shivering and my heart is slamming against my ribs, but I’m not afraid. For the first time in years, I’m speaking the truth and I’m not afraid.
When Koré gave me the letter, I imagined not needing to lie so much. I have never imagined being able to tell the truth.
Lord Anax is still looking at me as if he can’t believe I exist. “And you think I should marry her, just because her lady’s maid is truthful?”
“She’s educated as well. Read the letter; she wrote it to impress you with her learning. Of course, there’s a lot of tripe about loving you, but she won’t bother with lies once she knows you don’t need them.”
“A very practical lady, I see.”
“She’s fool enough to want her family to love her,” I say. “She’s not fool enough to care about being loved by her husband.”
He tilts his head. “You’re quite cynical on the matter.”
Koré has the wit and the will to court a duke’s son in secret. She could have ignored all Stepmother’s plans and gotten herself a respectable husband as soon as she turned fifteen. But she’s so obsessed with pleasing Stepmother, the thought never even occurred to her.
“People who want to be loved,” I say, “always do the most idiotic things.”
He laughs suddenly, his face cracking into a wry smile. “On that we agree. Very well. I’ll read your lady’s letter. What’s her name?”
“I promised her I wouldn’t tell.”
“What’s your name?”
“Maia.”
“Well then, Maia, you can go home and tell your mistress that you accomplished your mission.”
I don’t know why I want to laugh. Maybe it’s the thrill of truth still burning in my veins. But I smooth out my face and drop him a curtsy instead. “Thank you, my lord.”
Then I make for the door. I did it, I think, and start to shake again, this time with relief.
My hand is on the doorknob when I hear him say, “Oh, and Maia?”
“Yes, my lord?” I look back over my shoulder.
He’s sitting at the desk now, the letter open in his hands. He looks at me over the edge of his spectacles. “I am prepared to believe you didn’t mean to spy on me. But if I hear you’ve been gossiping about my former betrothed—and if you do, I will hear of it—I will find both you and your mistress, and I will give you cause to regret your indiscretion.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I have no interest in discussing your broken heart.”
“Did he read the letter?” Koré demands from the kitchen doorway that afternoon.
I look up from the pot of barley soup I’m stirring. “Yes.”
“What did he say?” Her left hand rests against the doorframe in the languid, graceful way that she always poses, but her right hand is clenched on a handkerchief.
“That he would read it.”
“Watch your tongue. Did he—” She breaks off in a fit of harsh coughing.
“You haven’t caught a chill, have you?” I ask. Koré is forever catching minor illnesses when she doesn’t sleep—Stepmother calls it aristocratic frailty—and she’s even harder to please than usual when she’s sick.
“It’s nothing,” says Koré. “Did he seem—favorable?”
Once I swore you didn’t love him, I think, but I hold the words back. I’m sure I was right when I told him that she didn’t want his love. There has never been any room in her heart for anyone but Stepmother and Thea. But I’m not sure if she’ll be angry that I took such initiative—or if her pride will be hurt—
And I don’t want to share with her the moment when I laughed, when I spoke the truth to somebody who wanted to hear it.
“I think so,” I say instead, which is a truth and a lie at once.
My reward is Koré straightening up, the majesty back in her shoulders and chin.
“Of course he can’t fail to be impressed,” she says. “Good work, Maia. You’ll take him another letter tomorrow. Tell Mother I won’t be down for dinner. You can bring me a bowl of broth later.” A whirl of bright blue skirts, and she’s gone.
“Poor Koré,” I say to Mother. “I suppose she won’t be getting much sleep tonight.” The words are a reflex, but I remember Lord Anax, and I almost mean them. He won’t be easily impressed.
“Well, on the bright side,” I say, “I suppose I’m going to see a lot of the duke’s palace.”
I may tell the truth again two or even three times before the fortnight is up. My heart flutters.