Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (easy books to read TXT) 📗

funded by Greece’s old enemies, the Persians. Without wood, the Athenians could not replace the ships they had lost; without bread, they would starve.

For an instant, the goddess’s face was shadowed by an expression of regret. Then she launched herself into the wind like a bird of prey, wheeling north to Mount Olympus.

Melisto was drunk. The taste of wine was sour in her mouth, and her bandaged head pounded. The world was no longer spinning, but she felt sick and hot. She kicked off the blanket Thratta had spread over her and glared at the raftered ceiling.

There was something she couldn’t remember. She knew she had tumbled down the stairs and cut her head; she recalled that vividly. There had been so much blood that she had panicked, and her mother cried. Only Thratta remained calm, wrestling Melisto to the floor as she staunched the wound and bandaged her head.

One of the slaves was sent for a doctor. Another ran to the storeroom for a cup of wine to ease the pain. The doctor said that the upper bone in Melisto’s arm was broken. At that, Melisto became frantic. To her, broken meant that part of her arm was about to fall off. As the doctor set the bone, she became half-crazed. She tried to bite him until Thratta held her down. The doctor encased her arm in bandages, stiffening them with a mixture of lard and wax.

Once the bandage was finished, Melisto stopped screaming. It dawned on her that the bandage was meant to hold her arm together. She submitted to having a sling tied around her neck and drank the last of the wine. The room spun. She closed her eyes and slept.

Now she was awake, and it was late afternoon. Melisto shifted onto her left side. Thratta stood by the window, spinning. The slave woman put down her distaff and came to the bed.

A glowing figure appeared in the doorway: Lysandra in her yellow gown. “Is she awake? Is she better?”

“She has a fever,” Thratta answered. “Her arm’s swollen. The doctor said it would swell.”

“I sent Sosias to the market to buy her a present.” Lysandra held up the doll in her arms. “Look, Melisto! Have you ever seen a more beautiful doll?”

Melisto stretched out her hand. She loved dolls, but she was hard on them, battering them to bits. Her mother had threatened never to give her another one.

The new doll was made of hard clay. Her painted face was serene, with chalk-white skin and lips as red as apples. The arms and knees were jointed. It would be possible to pose her and make her dance.

“You can weave her a little dress when your arm heals,” Lysandra suggested.

Melisto made a sour face. She was six years old now; her wool work was improving, but she had yet to develop a taste for it. She averted her head as Lysandra felt her forehead.

Lysandra spoke to Thratta. “I don’t think she’s very feverish. It’s hot this afternoon.” All at once she spoke sharply. “You saw what happened, Thratta! She stepped on the hem of my gown and tripped! It was an accident — it happened so fast, I couldn’t catch her! I nearly fell myself!”

The ugly thing was back in Melisto’s head again: the thing she didn’t want to remember. She had followed her mother up the stairs. The hem of her mother’s gown brushed the top of each step, rippling, almost floating, tempting her to step on it. The gown was new, the product of skillful and painstaking work. She remembered the sound it made when it tore: skritch!

“You saw what happened!” Lysandra insisted.

Thratta echoed, “I saw what happened.”

Melisto shifted onto her back and sat the doll on her chest so she could look into its face. If she thought about the doll and only about the doll, the other thing would go away. She fingered the doll’s foot, which was sharply pointed; the doll would be an uncomfortable companion in bed. Nevertheless, Melisto would sleep with her. If she didn’t, the doll’s feelings might be hurt. She wondered if she could tie the doll to the tortoise in the garden. That would be funny, if she could make the doll ride the tortoise.

She smiled at the thought and shut her eyes. She slept.

When she woke again, the room was dark. Outside, birds were singing the dawn chorus. Melisto’s mouth was dry. Anxiously she sucked her tongue and licked the roof of her mouth. She croaked, “Thratta?” but the room was empty. Thratta must have gone to the fountain house for water. Usually Melisto went with her: it was her favorite time of the day.

Melisto shifted to see if her arm had stopped hurting. It hadn’t. The bandage around her head itched, and her very bones were sore, as if they had been shaken inside her skin. Her stomach growled.

Something sharp dug into her side. She fished the doll out from under her and gazed through the dim light at the painted face. The doll was as lovely as she remembered. She held it to her breast and started to get out of bed. Her foot knocked against something hard: there was a clink, and the floor was wet. Thratta must have left a cup of water beside her bed. She had knocked it over.

The thought of water increased her thirst. She would go down to the kitchen and tell one of the slaves to give her something to drink.

She adjusted her arm inside its sling and passed through the room where the women kept their looms. When she came to the stairs, she stopped. She remembered hurtling down them. All at once, she felt dizzy. She sat on the top step, hugging her doll. She did not cry, but panted, breathing in short gasps.

A murmur of voices came from below. One was her father’s. Melisto leapt to her feet. Her bandaged arm upset her balance and she swayed, almost dropping