I glide into the courtyard. Karpos the importer made his money in wine, and the stonework is carved and painted with vine motifs. I scrape with my fingernail at a cluster of black grapes painted on a column.

  “Here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “Hiding?”

  I shrug.

  “I’m hiding.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Course you care,” Euphranor says. “Don’t you want to know who I’m hiding from?”

  I shrug.

  “Everyone,” he says. “Everyone but you.”

  I shrug.

  “Do you want to see a trick?”

  No.

  “No,” he says. “But I’m going to show you anyway.”

  He touches his finger to the painted column, where I’ve scored white scratches in the paint. The scratches heal.

  “Very impressive,” I say. “You can put paint back on as well as take it off.”

  “You noticed.”

  I turn to go back inside.

  “I’ve been very kind to you,” he says. “Very generous, very patient.”

  It comes then, the change. The grapes burst into reality from the paint on the columns, hanging plump and ripe from the marble; the air suddenly goes warm and druggy sweet; the god, behind me, flickers into himself like a flame catching a bit of paper. A slave passing through the courtyard sees this, hesitates, then runs into the house. As though a person could run from this.

  “I’ll kill Simon,” the god says. “I’ll kill Thale and Ambracis and Philo and Olympios. I’ll throw the baby down the well. I’ll cut Tycho’s throat in front of your face, so help me, Pythias. I’ll make you watch.”

  I tell him Tycho has had enough.

  “He’s had enough when you decide he has,” the god says. “It’s entirely up to you.”

  Inside, I tell Glycera I have a client. I don’t run; I walk.

  The house is utterly overgrown with vines. It’s early, still, and there’s a supper laid out for us. Ambracis serves, eyes downcast, and Euphranor finds reason to summon each of the servants, one after another, on one pretext or another, so I can see they’re all well, plus meek and obedient. The house is tidy and in good order; the disarray is utterly gone.

  I tell him I won’t do it in my father’s room, and he says he understands.

  I have the god in my old bedroom. I tell him what to do and he does it. I tell him what I want. It’s not a matter of superior meltings or explosive joys.

  “I love you,” he says. Warm, naked, breathing hard. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

  I tell him he’s not allowed to talk.

  The next morning, I’m woken by shouting. I’m alone in the bed.

  Tycho is blocking the gate, trying to keep someone out. I wrap my fur tighter around my naked self and venture closer, barefoot.

  A soldier. Filthy, haggard, knife drawn. His eyes are sunken in a way I know. His voice is deep and rough, with a bit of sandpaper in it.

  “Then wake her,” he’s saying. “I’ll wait.” I step closer, and he sees me over Tycho’s shoulder. “Pytho?”

  I put my hand on Tycho’s shoulder. It’s all right.

  “Cousin,” I say.

  His smile, so sweet it hurts.

  Nicanor’s ridden one horse and is leading a second. He smiles at me and sheathes his knife and dismounts and I open the gate and let him in.

  “I went to Athens first,” he says, looking around the courtyard. “You weren’t there, but your brother was. And that tall fellow.”

  “Theophrastos,” I say.

  “He gave me all this money.” He opens a saddlebag on the second horse to show me a small fortune in gold coin. “From your father’s school. He said it rightfully belonged to me. Then I went to the garrison, here, and spoke to Thaulos. He said you’d be expecting me.”

  “Ah.”

  We both look down at the fur I’ve pulled tightly around me.

  “I’d like a wash,” he says. “And something to eat.”

  “Tycho,” I say.

  “Lady.”

  “Take care of our cousin. Give him whatever he wants.”

  “Will you put that lot in the storeroom?” Nicanor says to me, nodding at the saddlebags. “After you put some clothes on. You, Tycho. Lead on.”

  “Master,” Tycho says. He’s been playing his trick of keeping his big self half between us throughout this conversation.

  “All right, man, I’m not going to eat her,” Nicanor says. “Show me the kitchen while she sorts herself out. I want some eggs.”

  “This way, Master.”

  I lock up the bags and return to my room, where I put on the brown dress from last night. I find Nicanor in the kitchen breakfasting on bread dipped in a bowlful of raw egg. He eats standing. “Want some?”

  I shake my head.

  “Thaulos told me there’s a man named Euphranor I owe some money to,” Nicanor says, without looking at me. “Is that right?”

  I nod.

  “Does your family know? Herpyllis, or your brother?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ve been on campaign for twelve years,” he says. “I need rest. Your man here has explained the situation to me. It’s all right, Pythias. I’m not going to tell your family. The townspeople will talk, I suppose, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Stay home like you’re supposed to, from now on, and you won’t even have to see them. I’m not going to punish you.”

  He stops eating for a moment and looks at me to make sure I believe him.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Write to them,” he says. “Your brother and the others. A small wedding, don’t you think? Nothing too elaborate. How soon do you think they might come?”

  “IS THAT WINE?” NICO ASKS. “No, not for me, I’ll have water. Theophrastos has been teaching me. Water for thirst, wine for taste, that’s what he says. I’m thirsty. Are these cups new? I don’t recognize these cups. This is new.” His cloak. “Do you like it? Theophrastos had it made for me. It’s very good wool, very warm. It’s almost too warm for this time of year. He’s getting married, too, did you know? You’ll come to Athens for the wedding? I’m best in my class in astronomy and mathematics and I’m learning to play the kithara now. Theophrastos says I’m really good, especially considering I started so late. I brought it with me, I can show you. It’s a really good one. Theophrastos says you become a better musician if you play on a better instrument. It was actually pretty expensive. I have my own room, it’s bigger than my room here. You’ll see when you come to visit me. You can come visit now, can’t you? Now that it’s spring and the army is home? Theophrastos says it’s very safe for us Macedonians now. He says Daddy was over-cautious, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He says—”

  My little brother breaks off mid-thought to launch himself into Herpyllis’s lap and bury his face in her dress. She laughs and runs her fingers through his hair, slowly, over and over, until he lies still.

  We’re sitting in the courtyard, early evening, enjoying one of the first really warm days of spring: new green, new birds, heavy clothes and winter shoes abandoned for linen and sandals. Me, Nico, Herpyllis, Pyrrhaios, Nicanor. Theophrastos is in Daddy’s old room, working. I think he wants to sit with us, but feels he’d be intruding on the family. Or maybe he feels he must keep Daddy’s ghost quick. Pyrrhaios is family now; he and Herpyllis married in Stageira. He smiles often, touches her gently. And Nico—I can see he wants to love Pyrrhaios like a father. Nicanor sits on the far side of Pyrrhaios, listening with his head on one side to favour his good ear, patiently answering Pyrrhaios’s questions. When no one is speaking to him, he withdraws into himself, sipping from his cup. He, too, is thirsty.

  I spend a lot of time watching him. I am alert to him—his body, his moods, what focuses his attention and what releases it. I find myself wanting a private glance across the table, a casual touching of hands, any acknowledgement at all. But he is cool. His eyes don’t change when he looks at me. He’s tired, and spends a lot of time alone in the room he’s chosen for himself. He dislikes loud noise. I’ve seen him wince at Nico’s high spirits, less in dislike than in physical pain. He has a ringing in the good ear, he’s told me, and he gets headaches. After we’re married, I’ll see if he’ll let me put herb poultices on his temples, the way I used to do for Daddy. He’s already told me he’ll be keeping his own room.

  Herpyllis asked after Myrmex within minutes of her arrival in Chalcis. I told her the truth: that he had stolen from us, that he was gone and he would not be coming back.

  “I should be surprised,” Herpyllis says. But her eyes still fill with tears.

  “Who’s Myrmex?” Nicanor asked.

  “A poor relation. Daddy took him in years ago. He was like my brother.”

  “What did he steal?”

  “Money.” I hugged Herpyllis again. She couldn’t stop kissing me, all over my face. “He was a little shit.”

  “Pytho.” Herpyllis looked mortified, then laughed. “Language!”

  “He sounds like it,” Nicanor said. “Good riddance, then. You’ll excuse me.”

  Then he was gone to his room for the rest of the afternoon, leaving Herpyllis and me to supervise Pyrrhaios’s unpacking, and generally boss him about. We laughed so much, the three of us, until Pyrrhaios looked at Herpyllis and said, “I don’t care,” and hugged me, too, and I let him.

  “We’ve missed you.” He put his arm around Herpyllis and the two of them stared fondly at me. “We were so worried about you.”

  Love had wrought magic in him, a metamorphosis; he liked me now. Herpyllis was more relaxed than she’d been in the months before Daddy’s death, and her prettiness was back, in her eyes, especially. They were happy together.

  Now, in the courtyard, Pyrrhaios leans over to prise Nico off his mother’s lap. “I can still pin you,” he says, and takes a few steps away from the table, hauling Nico onto the ground to wrestle, to prove it. Nicanor flinches at Nico’s delighted shrieks but, unusually, doesn’t leave. He’s making an extra effort tonight. The wedding is tomorrow.

  Theophrastos appears in a doorway, drawn by the noise, and watches the wrestlers with his dry smile. Neither he nor Nicanor has Pyrrhaios’s tree-branch arms. Pyrrhaios gives Nico the exhilaration of the body, Theophrastos that of the mind. What, if anything, will Nicanor give him? So far, they’ve barely spoken.

  The next day’s festivities begin at sundown. A priest comes to the house to supervise the ritual. Nicanor and I exchange gifts. He gives me a bolt of pink silk and a necklace set with pink tourmalines I’ll wager anything Herpyllis picked out for him. I give him a branch of snow-white plum blossoms. I wanted to give him plums, for my first memory of him, but of course it’s only spring. He holds the branch without curiosity, waiting to be told what to do next.

  The wedding supper is hosted by Herpyllis and Pyrrhaios. Herpyllis explains each dish as it comes. Beans with mint, you stew it with a ham hock, and honey bread, and lamb rubbed with spices, you have to crush them first and use quite a bit of salt, and quince cake of course, seedy quince cake! A seedy meal for a seedy wedding night; I blush, and they beam.

  Nicanor sits apart from me, and sips from his cup, and listens with his head cocked, smiling his polite, dull-eyed smile. Finally it’s time for the procession back to the house. Normally we would walk from my father’s house to my husband’s; but here, of course, there’s no distinction. This morning, I asked Nicanor if he wanted to stay in Chalcis, or return to Athens, or go somewhere else altogether. He looked at me and said, “I really don’t care.”

  Nicanor takes my hand, and together we lead the wedding party, by torchlight, on a short walk up the street and back. In the few days she’s been here, Herpyllis has taken the servants in hand and had the house scrubbed to a moony glow. Even the outside walls are clean and polished. At the threshold, Nicanor turns to thank the party. Then he leads me inside.

  They have prepared Daddy’s old bedroom, which is to be ours now.

  We stand in the doorway. Many lamps are lit, and flower petals toast in a brazier, scenting the room. The bed’s laid with silk and fur, and there’s wine on the table. Nicanor moves first; he goes for the wine. I attend to the brazier with the petals, blowing them out.

  Nicanor glances over. “Thanks. Perfume makes me sneeze.” He takes off his clothes and gets into the bed with his cup. “This wine is decent.”

  “It’s a wedding gift. From Euphranor, I think.”

  Our first married conversation.

  After a blank moment, he looks up at me. “You can read, if you like,” he says. “The light won’t bother me. You like to read?”

  “There’s no book here,” I whisper.

  He closes his eyes.

  I take a lamp across the courtyard to Daddy’s old workroom. The house isn’t asleep yet. Doubtless they’ve noticed me; perhaps they’ll think he’s asked me to read to him.

  When I return, Sappho under my arm, he’s asleep.

  After the first night, he leaves the big bedroom to me and returns to the small, windowless room he claimed as his when he first arrived. There’s no sneaking, no pretence; he doesn’t care who knows. Herpyllis takes me aside to ask if he’s injured there.

  “I don’t know,” I say. That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “But the first night—”

  I shake my head.

  “But then you aren’t married.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Pytho.” She takes my shoulders in her hands so I have to look at her. “Do you want me to ask him?”

  “No!”

  “Then you have to find out. It’s grounds for—”

  I hold up my hand, stop.

  “We can all see he’s suffering,” she says. “We all have compassion for him. But we have to think about your future, too.”

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “All right, all right, all right, I’ll stop talking about it.” But something else occurs to her. “It is him, not you? I know the first time can be—especially if you’re shy, or—”

  I close my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears.

  “Forget I asked,” Herpyllis says.

  Nico comes loping into the kitchen, where we’ve been having our little talk, looking for another in an endless series of snacks. Herpyllis ruffles his hair, kisses me, and leaves us alone.

  “You’re so tall now,” I say.

  “Your voice is still deeper.” He sits at the table and lets me serve him, bread and dried apricots. I sit down across from him. “I’ve missed you,” I say.

  “Me, too.” He eats an apricot. “Nicanor told me Daddy’s will said he was responsible for me, and anytime I wanted to leave Theophrastos and come back to live with you, I could.”

  “Is that what you’d like?”

  He looks at me steadily, with his clear, good eyes. “Not really,” he says. “But I’ll do it if you need me.”

  I lunge at him across the table, tackle him to the ground, and tickle him until we’re both breathless. “Who needs you?” I say, again and again, digging my fingers into his armpits and wiggling them. “Who needs you?”

  That night, I go to Nicanor’s room. I had thought to follow him, very naturally, when he first went. Early, as usual; earlier than the rest of the house. But courage failed me, and instead I stayed up, playing tiles with Herpyllis and Pyrrhaios and Nico, while Theophrastos read in his corner. We talked about their respective journeys home, the day after tomorrow, and Theophrastos’s upcoming marriage, in the summer, when we would all be reunited.

  “And we’ll come again, the moment you—as soon as you—as soon as you need us.” Herpyllis falters.

  “She means when you get pregnant,” Nico says. Daddy taught us both not to be mealy-mouthed.

  “That will be lovely,” I say to Herpyllis. And to Nico: “You won’t be invited.”

  “Disgusting.” Nico makes a show of considering his tiles. “Don’t even tell me. I guarantee you, I won’t want to know.”

  “Actually, it’s a fascinating biological phenomenon.” Theophrastos looks up from his book. “When we’re home, we’ll dissect a pregnant sheep together. It’s quite similar.”

  “Fun!” Nico says.

  “Oh, fun.” Herpyllis swats at him across the table. “Disgusting, both of you. Theophrastos, you’re as bad as their father was. Dead animals all over the house, and always some carcass boiling away in my kitchen so he could preserve the skeleton. Pytho, you look tired.”

  My cue. “I am, rather. I think I’ll say goodnight.”

  I make the rounds of kissing cheeks and none of them quite looks at me. I wonder who Herpyllis hasn’t told.

  “I thought we’d go out to the farm tomorrow,” I say. “Take a picnic.”

  Everyone agrees that is a first-rate idea.

  I wash in the big room and change into my nightdress. By the time I’m done, the courtyard is empty. Herpyllis’s doing, no doubt. I cross to Nicanor’s room.

  “Yes,” he calls.

  I open the door. The room is dark, but he’s not sleeping; I can feel his tense alertness, even flat on his back in the narrow bed.

  “We thought to visit the farm tomorrow, for a picnic. We’d—I’d like it if you came.”

  He breathes out.

  “May I come in?” When he doesn’t answer, I close the door behind me and place the lamp on the table. “May I sit?”

  “Pythias.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Pytho.”

  “Herpyllis says I should ask if you have an injury.”

  “Ah.”

  We sit for a moment, breathing in the excellently honest silence.

  “No,” he says.

  I touch the tie at my shoulder.

  “No.” He pulls my hand down, quickly, and holds it in both of his own. “I don’t want you to do that.”

  I tell myself: he would do it if it meant nothing to him. I tell myself: therefore, it means something. He’s packed in thorny burnet, still, or I am. Packed in spikes, both of us, until we arrive at a safe place.

  I go back to my room.

  The next morning he’s there for breakfast, and supervises the packing up of our caravan. He’s fast and silent at the work, and when he’s done, he and Pyrrhaios go for the horses. “Will you ride?” Nicanor asks me over his shoulder.