I sit.

  “What I said when you took him swimming that first time,” she begins. “About how it would be on your head.”

  I shake my head to show I know she didn’t mean it that way.

  “No, you listen,” she says. “You’re going to let me say it aloud. You didn’t do this. You didn’t make it, you didn’t wish it, you didn’t cause it in any way. You were not the cause. Neither material, formal, efficient, nor final.”

  I look at her.

  “That was a joke,” she says.

  We embrace for a long time while Nico watches us silently from his corner. When Herpyllis finally releases me and I stand, he comes to take my place. I sit back down, and she and I hold him from both sides.

  Herpyllis leaves for Stageira the next morning, with Pyrrhaios and everything else accorded her in the will. Some very nice furniture. While she and Nico hug fiercely, I give them the gift I’ve been saving to make their parting possible.

  “You’ll both come to my wedding,” I say. “It’ll only be a few months to wait, and then you’ll be together again.”

  Herpyllis embraces me, and it’s only then I realize—stupidly—she’s actually leaving me, too. “Who loves you?” she whispers into my hair.

  You do.

  “There, that’s not so bad, is it?” she says to Nico. He sniffles a smile. She kisses my cheek, crushes him to her one last time, and mounts the waiting cart. “Kiss Myrmex for me,” she calls.

  Nico pulls me inside to find Daddy’s map of the East, to figure out exactly where his mother is going and how long until Nicanor might make it home from the wars. I play along, gravely calculating, trying to factor in rivers and seasons.

  We eat a quiet supper together in the innermost courtyard, the one with the lavender. Nico will leave for Athens and Theophrastos in the morning; Thaulos has offered to convey him with some troops who are shifting there. He’ll be most utterly safe at school—Theophrastos loves him like a dog loves a ball. I tell him I’ll be back in Athens myself very soon, once everything in Daddy’s will is wrapped up here. There are matters to be seen to, bills to be paid, loose ends to be tied.

  “Where’s Myrmex?” Nico asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Nico looks at me with his big, dark, clear eyes.

  We go together to the storeroom and consider the iron bars holding the door.

  “Nico, he wouldn’t,” I say. “He’d had too much to drink, that’s all. Everyone grieves differently.”

  “Who’s got the key?” Nico says.

  Thale, it turns out; Herpyllis gave it to her before she left, telling her to give it to me when I was ready.

  The door swings open easily, silently; recent oiling. Bags of corn and beans and lentils and flour; seeds, dried herbs, squash; the first apples of the year. Wine, lamp oil, cooking oil, torches, wool.

  “Lady,” Thale whispers.

  Every last coin is gone.

  Who am I to be making decisions? Who am I? An orphan, a pauper. A girl. Thinking thinking thinking smiling smiling smiling. Grace matters now.

  “But how did he get in?” Nico says.

  “Before Herpyllis left, probably. Sometimes she left the key lying around in the kitchen, on market days when she was in and out of there a lot.”

  “It’s not her fault.”

  “Of course not.” I reassure Nico, reassure the servants. “Silly boy,” I say, over and over, meaning Myrmex. “He’ll be back.”

  “Lady,” they say. I read their doubts, but they’ll take the lead from me. There’s no one else. Late at night, I count the coins I keep in my own little purse, with my clothes in the trunk in my room. I can afford a week; two, at most.

  Of course I forgive him.

  Once the stars are up and the house is quiet, I go to wake Tycho, who sleeps by the front gate. “Come,” I say.

  We walk down to the beach. I expected some objection—he’s been with us so long, Tycho, that occasionally he’ll risk some such—but he says nothing. Standing on the sand, we both stare into the black water.

  “I should have followed him in,” Tycho says. “Lady, forgive me.”

  I walk straight down to the water’s edge, then keep walking.

  The water is cold and then colder; the plunge stops my heart. I surface gasping and look back. Tycho is watching me.

  I dive again, eyes open. There’s a faint phosphorescence in the water that licks me greeny-gold. I sob under the surface, come up to breathe, go down again to let more tears go. I’m almost done when I hear Tycho’s deep call.

  “Almost,” I call back. “Almost.”

  I chose night on purpose; no one to see me, no one to shock. Girls don’t swim. But when I wade up onto the sand, my dress plastered to me, cold past feeling, I see a light back in the trees.

  “Quickly,” Tycho says, wrapping his wool around me. He’s seen it, too.

  Movement through the trees; someone walking.

  We come out onto the road in silence, my wet feet chafing in my sandals. I know Tycho wants to throw me over his shoulder and carry me, like he used to when I was little. Whoever’s got the lamp cut through the trees to come out ahead of us; we see the chip of light, still now, waiting. Tycho makes himself bigger—a trick he has, like a bear—and puts himself between me and the light.

  “Is it Pythias?” a familiar voice calls, before we can make out the speaker.

  “Stop,” Tycho orders the voice.

  The lamp is held up to a face: Euphranor. “I’ll walk you home,” he says.

  He goes in front and Tycho walks behind. At our door, Euphranor says, “I heard about your father.”

  I nod.

  “Anything at all you need.”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  He bows and vanishes back into the trees, lamp extinguished now.

  I give Tycho back his smelly wool, damp now, and he settles down in his sleeping spot. In my room I strip off my wet clothes and get into bed, where I sleep dreamlessly and wake clear-headed, my hair stiff with salt water. In the kitchen, Ambracis is serving Nico while Thale feeds the baby. Nico will leave as soon as he’s finished breakfast.

  I ask Ambracis to prepare me a bath.

  “To prepare for your journey, Lady?” Thale says.

  I give Nico some coins and tell him not to spend them all on cake.

  “Come with me, Pytho,” he pleads. “You can’t stay here without money.”

  And weave in my room for the rest of my life, obeying Theophrastos? I indicate the coins. “I have money.”

  “You’ll go to your mother, then?” Thale says. “In Stageira?”

  The rustic life, far from books or even the possibility of books. I shake my head. “And what about Myrmex?” I ask. “If—when he comes back, where else will he come back to?”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Nico says.

  “He will.”

  I walk Nico up to the garrison, where the leader is waiting for us. Nico is pale but contained; I’m proud of him. I tell him so, quietly, and he nods.

  “Theophrastos loves you,” I say.

  “I know.”

  I kiss him, and he squeezes my hand. He won’t hug me, not in front of all these soldiers. I expect them to show him to a cart, but Thaulos asks him if he’d like to ride. A horse is brought out, a lively, pretty thing. The men’s faces soften when Nico’s lights up.

  He’ll be fine.

  I walk back to the house. Tycho goes in ahead of me while I linger outside in the garden, picking a few flowers for a vase for my room. Blue, purple, white. Athens, Stageira, Chalcis.

  My husband will return, and then we’ll see.

  I go in and close the gate behind me. First, I’ll have my bath.

  I’m in bed. When did that happen? Thale is sitting by me with her sweet old worried face, waiting to cluck and coo and spoon broth into me.

  Sometimes I sleep.

  It occurs to me that I’m alone.

  I get up to use the pot and stagger, dizzy; arms catch mine on either side. I’m back in bed and there is a plate of fruit slices, a cup of milk. I would rather like a tonic, but there is no one to authorize that. I lie back and feel like a jellyfish, spreading and sinking into the bed. I cry very, very quietly but they catch me anyway. Gentle wiping of my face, a cool cloth for my forehead. My nose blown for me. Blow, Lady, like I’m three. Someone changes the sheets; someone changes me. I keep my eyes closed. Then I’m asleep for real.

  Sometimes I forget. I forget the loss of them all for minutes at a time. The mouth in my stomach opens wide and yawns and I eat the fruit slices, take the spoonfuls of broth, sip at the milk. I’m surprised that no one is surprised by me, but then I remember they’ve spent years caring for Daddy, and must think I’ve fallen to his illness.

  I start to think. There is the rational mind and the animal body. The animal body forces the thoughts away, does the forgetting; I’m ashamed how often the animal asserts itself. Food! Sleep! Rubbing the parts when Thale has gone to the kitchen for a minute! I understand, finally, that Daddy suffered so because he was practically all mind and no animal; he could never forget. I am lesser. Is it because I’m a girl? Daddy would say so. But that theory doesn’t account for the animal natures of Nico, of Myrmex.

  O Myrmex.

  I get angry. How dare he betray us? How dare he leave me?

  Then I’m up. I’m up and bathing and dressed and eating a fish on the stone terrace. I’m terribly thin; I hear Thale tell Simon. The baby smiles at me in big surprise and holds her arms up to me. Uppies, uppies! I pick her up. She kicks and squirms in the air for a moment, unsure, and then I bring her in to my chest for a hug. She touches my hair solemnly, touches my cheek. She looks into my eyes. Hers are brown, clean and clear. “Who’s pretty?” I ask, and she says, “Me!”

  Daddy’s study is neat and tidy, and I’m not sure where to begin. I call Simon to help me. He shows me where Daddy kept the household accounts, and explains Herpyllis’s system of the bowl on the high shelf with the money for marketing. I know that bowl. He suggests I write to Theophrastos about Myrmex’s betrayal. He tells me today is a market day, and I give him money from my little purse. He hesitates.

  “No meat,” I tell him. He nods.

  That is my first command as lady of the house.

  I’m taking an inventory of the storeroom with Thale and Ambracis when Tycho comes to say we have a visitor. I have a visitor: Thaulos. Tycho says he called twice while I was sick, but they sent him away.

  I receive him in the formal front room. Ambracis brings a tray of walnuts and hot tea.

  “Feeling better?” Thaulos asks. It’s been a month since the reading of the will.

  I bow my head, assenting in silence like a lady. Silence garlands a woman and perfumes her. I read that somewhere.

  “I’m glad of it,” he says. “I was sorry to hear of your condition. Nerves, was it?”

  I bow my head.

  “Nerves.” He nods, pooching his lips judiciously, agreeing with his own diagnosis. “Well. You’re getting the pink back, though, and that’s what counts, eh?” He toasts me with his tea and winks.

  Poor man. He must be terribly uncomfortable. I offer him a walnut.

  “I’m afraid this isn’t just a social visit.” He inspects the walnut before he puts it in his mouth. Chews, swallows. Sips his tea. I’m doing very well so far. “I’m obliged to bring a financial concern to your attention. A rather pressing concern. Ah, gods.” He puts a walnut back on the plate. “This is awful. Only it’s about the house.”

  “This house?” I ask politely.

  “There was supposed to be—” He looks vaguely around the room, clearly wishing there was someone else he could talk to, some man.

  “Money?” I say.

  He looks like I’ve slapped him.

  “Is that the concern?”

  He puts his cup on the table and leans forward. “You shouldn’t have to deal with all this. You’re just a child.”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “The fellow in Athens, your father’s—”

  “There’s no one else. How much do we owe?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Myrmex told us he won the house in a bet,” I say. “That must have been a lie. How much do I owe?”

  He blinks, then tells me a sum.

  “To you personally?”

  He shakes his head. “To one of my officers. This was his house. I explained the situation to him and he was very—”

  “Did Myrmex give him anything at all?”

  He shows me his empty palms.

  I look at my tea. Thinking thinking.

  Thaulos says, “Perhaps I should be speaking with the boy himself, with—”

  “Myrmex?”

  “Does he have another name? ‘Little Ant.’ That’s a child’s nickname.”

  “That’s what we’ve always called him,” I say. Jason was for me and no one else; he never even told it to Herpyllis. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  I explain and Thaulos listens. Sometimes I can see the father in him, sometimes the soldier. He stands. Perhaps the pettiness of our domestic relationships has disgusted him. “You need your father’s man in Athens to act for you,” he says. “And you need a husband. I’ll send another request in dispatches to find out where your fellow is. What is he, infantry?”

  “Cavalry.”

  He’s looking around the room, at the furnishings. I send my mind chasing his, and then with a rush I pass him. “How much for a first payment?”

  He’s looking at a little ivory owl on a side table. He looks at me. I bow my head so I don’t have to see him take it.

  When I look up again he’s on his feet. “You need to come up with the difference.” His voice is harsh. He doesn’t like taking owls from little girls. “If you don’t come up with the difference, you’ll have to leave. You understand it’s a legal matter. I have no influence.”

  I bow my head.

  “I want to help you, but I—”

  Ambracis comes in with cheese.

  “I’ll be off.” I stand to face him. “I’ll be in touch about your intended. A word of advice. If that young man comes back—”

  “Myrmex?”

  “Act happy to see him, then send for me.”

  I thank him.

  “And I’ll send a courier tomorrow.”

  My face must be a question.

  “For the next payment.”

  I bow my head in a fragrant silence.

  “And this is real Persian silk,” the widow says. “Touch, go on. All these beautiful things are for enjoying. Sight is the least of the senses, I often think. We have tongues and toes and fingertips for a reason, no?”

  She’s already had me step out of my sandals so I can walk barefoot across a deep sheepskin rug. Now she’s showing me a painted rose-silk curtain that falls from ceiling to floor. She coaxes it into my hands so I can feel the coolness of it; the tiny imperfections in the skin of my fingertips catch on the sheer surface. She takes the fabric back to rub against her cheek, then twirls her whole body in it. She makes me try. I feel the sheer cool all down the length of me, everything looking pink.

  The house of Glycera smells of quince and spice. We settle into a private room, one wall open to a flower garden, for our weaving. She has a large cloth half done, and a new frame for me.

  “Where are your daughters?” I ask.

  She offers me a basket with many spools of coloured threads. I choose a blue. “I thought, for today, just you and me.” She takes orange for herself and we begin. “How are you feeling?” she asks without looking up from her work.

  It’s the doorway I’ve been waiting for, the reason for my visit today. I tell her about Myrmex, and Thaulos, and the little owl, followed by the perfume bottle shaped like an almond, and the gold wire bracelet, and the new vase with the wrestlers on it—the one without the chip.

  Glycera sets down her thread and looks at me. “You should have come to me three days ago.” Cooler than I had expected, hoped.

  “How do I find Myrmex?”

  She does smile then, gently. “Sweetheart, you don’t. He and that money are gone. Why do you not tell your father’s man in Athens? Could he not pay?”

  “He’d make me go live with him,” I say. I realize how stupid an objection that sounds. “He doesn’t like me. He thinks I talk too much. I’d have to spend all day indoors and eat with the women.”

  “That’s all?” Glycera turns back to her weaving.

  “He’d choose my books.”

  “And that’s so important to you?”

  I have to think about that. When did I last read a book?

  “I think it is,” she says. “I think it’s very important to you.”

  “Is it?” I say. My face hurts, suddenly, from the effort of not crying.

  “I can read, you know.” She selects another thread, a rust. “My husband taught me. He liked me to read to him. And sing, and dance. And—talk, really. He loved to talk. We would have wonderful arguments about all sorts of things. Politics and ideas and art. You’d be surprised how many men prize an intelligent woman.”

  “Theophrastos doesn’t.”

  “Then he’s a boor.” She sets her work down a second time and repeats the gesture from the party, lifting my chin with a single finger. “Your brows need tweezing.”

  She lies me down on a couch and sits beside me. She strokes my hair back from my forehead while we wait for the slave to fetch her tools. “So brown,” she says. “You spend too much time in the sun. You’ve been a little wild thing all these years, haven’t you? Going about on your own, swimming and reading books all day? Climbing trees, I don’t doubt. Was it true, what your father said about healing that slave?”

  I tell her it wasn’t a bad infection and it probably would have healed itself. I was just a child, playing. The slave brings silver tweezers on a gold tray.

  “No more talking now.” She leans over me, so close I can feel her breath on my cheek. I close my eyes. She works quickly, expertly, the pinpricks arcing first below, then above the line of my brows. From time to time she presses a fingertip to my skin, firmly, to ease the pain. She smoothes a cool cream on after, for the redness.