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

shearwaters, pelicans, and herons. Melisto was aware of the wind, not because it blew hard, but because it stirred the leaves and the reeds along the river. There was a constant murmur in the air, not conversational, but secretive, intensely private.

When the sun began to go down, the handmaids removed the bridles from the donkeys. The freed animals shook their heads, drawing together into a herd. The leader broke into a trot, and the others followed suit. In a few minutes, they were out of sight. A rumor made its way through the flock of girls: the donkeys were bound for the stables at Brauron, where they would receive their evening fodder. The sanctuary was near at hand.

Korinna led the girls to the riverbank. The river curled, swift-flowing, but wide and shallow. Korinna told the Bears to strip naked, wade in, and wash themselves from head to foot. Melisto dragged her tunic over her head. She kick-splashed her way into the river.

Once the girls had bathed, Korinna guided them to a grove of trees: olive, pine, pistachio, and willow. She ordered them to spread out their himations and go to sleep. As soon as her back was turned, there was a murmur of discontent: if the sanctuary was nearby, why not finish the journey? The girls were hungry: they wanted to see where they would live; they wanted to sleep in beds, with a roof over their heads.

If Korinna heard their protests, she gave no sign of it. She stalked away from the grove with the dogs at her heels.

Elpis came to Melisto and held out her wrists. She had neglected to untie her ribbons before entering the river, and there was a rose-colored ring around one wrist. The yellow ribbon had left a mark like a bruise. “Do you want to wear one of my ribbons?”

Melisto’s eye strayed to the scarlet ribbon. It was her favorite color, but she wasn’t going to say so. “They’re not your ribbons. They’re for Artemis.”

“They’re mine for now. I’ll let you wear one.”

“They’re wet. You can keep them.” Melisto pointed to one of the willow trees. “Let’s spread our blankets under that tree. Nobody’ll be able to see us.”

She parted the willow branches and ducked between, knowing Elpis would follow. Inside the trailing branches, the world shimmered. The young leaves were yellow-green on one side, silver on the other. Melisto squatted down and spread out the two himations. “Melisto,” Elpis said in a coaxing voice that Melisto was getting to know, “would you let me see your necklace? Up close?”

Melisto hesitated. Over the past days, she’d grown aware of how heavy the necklace was. She wanted to take it off. “You can try it on, but you’d better give it back.”

“I will.” Elpis knelt up to kiss her cheek. “You’re good to me.”

Melisto didn’t know what to say. She dug her fingers into the grass and watched Elpis play with Lysandra’s necklace. The little girl crowned herself, tried the necklace around her neck, and tossed it lightly up and down. “It’s heavy, isn’t it? I like the way it jingles. Your mother must love you a whole lot.” She nuzzled the amber head. “I like the face part best. Is the lady Artemis?”

“No. It’s a sphinx head.”

“What’s a sphinx?”

Melisto paused. She knew a sphinx when she saw it, but she didn’t know how to define one. “It’s a winged monster, only beautiful. They protect graves and ask riddles.”

“What’s a riddle?”

“A riddle’s like a question, but the answer’s a trick.” Melisto smiled as she remembered a riddle Arkadios once taught her. “Here’s one. I’m the dark child of a golden mother. I fly in the sky without wings. What is it?”

Elpis shrugged. “I don’t know. What?”

“You’re supposed to guess,” Melisto rebuked her. “The riddle’s about something that’s like a dark child, and comes from a golden mother. It can fly, but it doesn’t have wings. You have to guess what it is.”

Elpis wrinkled her nose. “Is it your mother? Does your mother have golden hair like Demeter?”

“No, she’s dark, like me. The riddle’s not about mothers, silly. It’s about a thing. What kind of thing floats upward, but doesn’t have wings? What rises up in the sky?”

Elpis clapped her hands. “A bird!”

“Birds have wings. So that’s wrong.”

Elpis frowned in concentration. Then her face lit up. “A bat!”

“Bats have wings,” Melisto reminded her. Elpis’s failure to find the right answer was balm to her soul. “The answer’s smoke. A dark child — you know how smoke is darker than air? And fire makes smoke, so fire’s like the smoke’s mother. The golden mother, see? And smoke rises up to the sky without wings.”

She watched Elpis’s face as the child thought through the riddle. “Let’s tell the others!”

“No.” Elpis was a nuisance; Melisto had accepted that, but she wasn’t about to share her. “What’s the point of a riddle everyone knows? From now on, this’ll be our riddle. I’ll only tell it to you. That way, we’ll be the only ones who know the answer.”

“Tell me another one.”

“Tomorrow.” Melisto couldn’t remember another riddle. She stretched out on the bear pelt. “Now give me back my necklace.”

Elpis handed it over. Melisto curled her fingers around the amber sphinx head, fitting it inside the hollow of her palm. As her mind fished for riddles, she sank into sleep.

Darkness fell. It was Melisto’s third night sleeping with Elpis, and by now they had the knack of it. Their bodies shifted and balanced, nestled and flopped; they slept like puppies from the same litter. Melisto dreamed of caves and a fluttering ribbon, a sea-green flame. She dreamed of Arkadios holding his infant son.

Then her dreams were fractured like eggshells. The night was full of voices, rustlings and flares of light. Melisto sat up, alert.

“What is it?” Elpis clutched her arm. Melisto shook herself free. The curtain of willow boughs stirred; the face of Korinna, lit by torchlight, hung like a mask in midair.

“Come! Get up! At once!”

Melisto grabbed her