We continued onward to the altar, where I lifted the basket from my head and lowered it to the ground without spilling anything. I rolled my shoulders in relief.

  Sacrifice and prayers followed while my toe stopped bleeding.

  Still uneasy about being a bloody kanephoros, I waited in the front row of the stands just south of the sacred grove for the games to begin. Aminta sat next to me, not touching me but with her arm across Melo’s shoulders. I wished Maera were here, pressing herself against my legs.

  Kynthia, on my other side, congratulated me on my performance and added, “Last year, Apollo’s kanephoros kept a steady gait. A whisper about your bloody foot ran through the priests to the mamas and then to us. The mamas may wonder what kind of wife you’ll make, prone to scrapes as you seem to be. And the sons may have the image of your oozing toes lodged in their minds.”

  Hush, Kynthia!

  My favorite brother, Hector, rushed to me and stopped abruptly. He declaimed in a big voice from his athlete’s chest, “On Mount Olympus, the gods are praising my sister! The wounded kanephoros who didn’t falter.”

  I smiled up at him, forgetting Kynthia. Hector was always my champion, but he wouldn’t lie. If he believed I’d done well, then I had.

  He bounced a little, always full of warm energy. His black curls bounced too. We had the same round eyebrows that Father had praised. If they meant sweetness in me, they meant a hive’s worth of honey in him.

  He raised his arms in a vee, then dropped to his knees. “Does it hurt?”

  I tossed back my head, the wordless way to say no. “Not much.”

  Mother came to me from her chair next to Father. Hector jumped up and held her elbow while she bent down. “Let me see your foot.”

  I took off my sandal.

  “Mm. Youth! Cuts don’t last.” She patted my knee. “People are marveling—your father and I are marveling too—that you didn’t drop the basket. You showed remarkable determination.”

  She’d never described me as determined before. I wondered if I was.

  Kynthia squirmed next to me. Good.

  Hector said, “I would have stumbled.”

  “You wouldn’t have!” Troy’s best athlete.

  “Since you don’t mind pain,” he added, “I could teach you to wrestle.”

  We laughed. Girls and women didn’t wrestle. But it would have been fun.

  “I can’t stay. I have to take my place.” He held out his arm for Mother, who leaned on him back to her chair.

  I watched them go, the two tilting into each other. Father held his hands out to Mother when they were close.

  Three young men rushed to us and saluted my cousins with raised arms. Their faces were scarlet. Melo and Aminta blushed too, but Kynthia pursed her lips as if she’d eaten a lemon.

  My cousins were betrothed to the three and had two years left in their engagements. Married or not, they’d continue to serve me until I married too and went to live in my husband’s house.

  None of them had ever had a conversation with their intendeds. Kynthia, however, had listened to rumors that hers was dull. She often said, “Imagine me with a boring man!”

  I pitied him.

  Unless everyone really was disgusted by my bleeding toe, among the other contestants were young men who’d be put forward by their parents as my suitors. Succeeding as kanephoros took me a step closer from girlhood to womanhood. I’d cross entirely when I became a wife.

  I watched the players intently. This one was graceful, that one strong, another easily distracted. Some seemed merry, some grim with concentration. What would be best in a husband? Hector, my ideal of a man, laughed and shouted to his friends. Once he waved to me.

  But the games came easily to him. My best future husband might have to work harder and have no attention left over for waving. He might still be sweet and kind. How would I tell since I could only ever watch him from a distance?

  Once again, I wished for future sight. Then I’d know which one I was fated to marry. If we weren’t going to like each other, I might be able to persuade Mother and Father to choose someone else.

  Hector won the wrestling. I snapped my fingers raw.

  My twin, Helenus, won nothing, but he did better in every competition than our brother Deiphobus, which was all he cared about. Helenus couldn’t stand to lose, and I’d learned early to let him win our little games. I preferred not to endure his angry silences and sometimes elbow jabs, which he pretended were accidental.

  I loved him anyway. We were always together when we were very little.

  At first, Deiphobus, older by four years, simply wanted to play fair, and he made allowances when Helenus was smaller and weaker. But now that they were evenly matched, Deiphobus wanted victory as much as my twin did.

  After the competitions, everyone feasted on the sacrificial oxen and the sacrificial fruit and straggled home. I asked Mother if I could linger in the sacred grove.

  “Your toe is all right?”

  “It feels just like my other toes.” Not quite.

  “You can stay. Don’t worry if you fall asleep and don’t wake up until morning. Apollo may send you a prophetic dream.”

  Maera would miss me, but I might glimpse the future! I’d pet her and tell her everything.

  Gods could do more than send dreams. They might visit favorites and help them.

  Or harm them. Zeus, ruler of the gods, sometimes carried off maidens he fancied.

  But Apollo didn’t behave as he did—or not often.

  When everyone was gone, I sat on the bench in front of his altar and the marble statue of him under the branches of an ancient oak tree. In May in our warm land, the sacred grove was a wilderness of laurel shrubs, olive bushes, grapevines, and dwarf pine trees. A dove cooed. Leaves rustled. The scent of pine pleased my nose.

  I smiled at the statue: the sweetness of the god’s mouth, his powerful arms and legs, even the graceful fall of his tunic. His fingers on his lyre looked sensitive and purposeful.

  The fingers plucked the strings, beginning a lively tune.

  The statue plucked the strings!

  My breath stuck in my throat. I blinked, but the vision continued. The statue tinted rosy with life.

  After a little while, it—the god?—sat next to me. I trembled and shivered.

  “They chose well when they made you kanephoros. I’ve never been so pleased.”

  His velvet voice relaxed me. For joy, I snapped my fingers over my head. “Thank you.”

  “You hurt your foot.” He knelt in front of me—a god kneeling to me! Gently, he eased off my sandal.

  How safe my foot felt in his hand!

  “A valiant wound. You didn’t drop my basket.” He rubbed his finger across the scab. “There.”

  The cut closed. The last twinge of pain faded away. No sign remained that a pebble had cut me.

  “You’re the best god!”

  He sat next to me again and mock frowned. “I’ll tell Zeus you didn’t mean that.”

  I laughed.

  “Your brother Hector’s wrestling pleased me. He will be beloved by the gods.” The god of truth corrected himself. “Some gods.”

  “He’s my best brother.” Bravely, I added, “He’s worthy of admiration even by the gods.”

  Three crows flapped over the grove and landed on a branch of the oak tree. They cawed words. Truly! Words!

  “A minnow doesn’t sense the rapids ahead.

  Apollo, god of light and truth (not wisdom)—

  Cassandra, the determined kanephoros—

  nothing bad has happened yet.

  God and princess, watch your step!”

  “Did you hear that?” I blurted. “Did they really speak?” Crows thought me determined too!

  “They’re just my crows.” He waved a hand. Crows were his sacred birds. “Few mortals can hear them.” He put down his lyre and stroked my hair. “Let me love you in a little while, dear, and right now I’ll give you the power to see the future.”

  I already loved Apollo. How blessed I was that he wanted to love me too, which had to mean that, really, he already did.

  “If you’d like something else, tell me.”

  I tossed back my head.

  “You won’t see my future or the future of any deity.” Feather light, his hand caressed my cheek. “You won’t see the near future of yourself or any other mortal seer because seers can act against their own predictions. You’ll see only their more distant future. It isn’t in my power to give you those abilities. Understand?”

  I nodded. The enormous, important future! If I’d been good for Troy as kanephoros, how much better I’d be as a prophet.

  And I’d discover which man I was destined to marry.

  “You’ll be the mortal of truth as I’m the god.”

  “I’ll help people avoid their mistakes.”

  He corrected me. “Small mistakes, not big ones. The dread ship of fate is almost impossible to turn.”

  A sea breeze brushed my face. Why would the ship of fate sail to Troy? And why was it dread? Father was a good king, and we’d lived in peace for as long as anyone could remember.

  Apollo’s eyes shifted from me and then returned. He raised one eyebrow. “It seems I can’t grant future sight to you without also bestowing it on your twin. Do you mind?”

  I pitied Deiphobus, Helenus’s rival, because my twin would certainly use prophecy against him. Still, I tossed back my head. I’d balance Helenus’s mischief with my power.

  Apollo told me to lie back on the bench. He spread his hand across my forehead. A cloud of shining dust motes collected around me. I gasped for breath as specks of the future in tiny instants poured into my mouth. My nostrils filled with them. They pounded in my ears. I gagged, then inhaled, and they tingled down my throat.

  Deep within, they melted into me. Memories of the past joined visions of the future.

  I could examine them later, but the god was waiting. I opened my eyes and sat up. That wasn’t so bad. I smiled shakily at him.

  He moved closer, so near I smelled the clove oil on his skin. He tipped up my chin. His face neared my face—his ageless, unchanging god’s face! My stomach rose into my throat. He kissed my lips.

  Ai! I swallowed the bile and pushed—no, shoved!—him away.

  His face reddened. “You do this to me?” He stood.

  I collapsed back. I’d angered a god. And I’d been a fool to think that loving me had merely meant I was dear to him.

  Over the fear drumming in my ears, I heard him say, “I’ll return tomorrow. Do not offend me again.”

  3

  As soon as he left, the future unrolled as a bolt of linen sliding downhill on bumpy ground—fast, fast, pause, fast, pause. And so on. A blur, then a cavern with copper walls where a young man who reminded me of Father sat on a couch. Scenes flashed by. Stopped. Wide-sailed ships filled our harbor. How beautiful!

  Behind my eyelids, red bloomed. A clamor rose: hoofbeats, war cries, screams. No!

  Yards of cloth unfurled in a rush, a chaos of battling warriors. The fabric caught. I saw my beloved brother, Hector, curled on the ground outside Troy’s wall, a spear through his chest, and knew that he had died. Ai!

  My own chest heaved with sobs. The future rocked by in a sea of my tears, too blurry for me to see.

  Eventually, I calmed. I would warn Hector. He’d live.

  My spirit drifted above ashes that had been Troy. I knew the city had burned, but I had missed how soon the fire blazed—in three years or three hundred.

  As I watched, Troy seemed to rebuild itself, as mighty as ever. An air current lifted me and bore me along. Cities punched up on the plains and mountain valleys surrounding Troy. An invisible stylus etched spidery lines—roads—between the cities. The lines widened. Dots moved along the roads, faster and faster.

  Something crossed the sky above me, its passage too straight to be a bird. It disappeared over the horizon, but another succeeded it. They came and went, gaining even greater speed.

  The breeze gentled me as the visions faded. Ordinary sleep claimed me.

  Full daylight in the sacred grove. A crow cawed. I stretched and smiled at Apollo, who sat by my head with a bowl of grapes in his lap. His hand was soft on my arm.

  I stiffened, remembering his kiss—and my visions. Yes, this was the gift I asked for, but the god of prophecy knew I’d see Hector die. He—protector of children—should have protected me. I was barely a child, but I still was one. Mother, if she were here, would be furious too, no matter that he was Apollo.

  I jumped up. “Don’t touch me!”

  Apollo frowned, seeming surprised. “I gave you your wish.”

  “Do you think I wished to see my brother Hector”—I snarled—“beloved of Apollo, killed in battle—”

  “I’ll fight at his side.”

  “But he’ll die. And you knew it!”

  Apollo’s voice was calm. “Every tale ends with the death of the hero, unless he becomes immortal, which happens rarely. It’s the lot of mortals to die. What’s important are their great deeds before they die. Troy will have many heroes.” He held out the bowl. “Have a grape, love, and fulfill your promise.”

  I couldn’t! I wouldn’t! And Mother and Father would be disgusted with me if I did. “I don’t want your grapes.” I stormed away.

  Behind me, the crows cawed:

  “On a snowy night, the wolf

  smells the bone-white hare,

  and rage burns bright in the god of light.”

  I’d run only a few yards before a wind blew back my hair, plastered my beautiful peplos against me, and lifted me.

  A breathy voice whooshed in my ears. “Eurus, east wind. No harm meant.”

  The kind words lessened my anger and made me sensible.

  Eurus returned me to Apollo, who paced between me and the bench. “This is how you repay me? This is how a worshipper serves her god?”

  Eurus wafted away.

  Mother came to mind again, sitting innocently at her loom, believing Hector would live a long life. My eyes pricked. I smiled shakily. “Thank you for the gift of prophecy”—I took a shuddering breath—“and for honoring me by wanting to kiss me.” I swallowed. “I apologize for my anger.” It wouldn’t help Hector if the god remained angry at his sister.

  Apollo stood still. “Dear, I honor very few by loving them.” He smiled, seemingly fondly. “You know that.”

  “But I mustn’t love you beyond what a worshipper does. My—”

  His frown started.

  “My p-parents would think ill of me.”

  The frown deepened. “Disapproval, dear, weighs little compared to a god’s favor.”

  “I’d b-be d-disgraced.” Against the god’s tight mouth and red face, terrified, I went on. “I c-can’t k-kiss you.”

  Apollo went back to pacing.

  “I still revere you!”

  “Reverence isn’t what I want from you.” He added after a moment, “I’ve discovered that a god’s gift may not be withdrawn, but it may be cursed. I won’t curse your innocent twin, however, who received the gift when you did.” Apollo grew until he was twice my height, glowing, more beautiful than ever.

  I raised my hands in front of me, as if I could ward off whatever my punishment would be.

  “When you prophesy, you won’t be believed. Your warnings won’t be heeded.”

  I gasped out, “You may kiss me if Hector won’t die.”

  One side of his mouth curled into a half smile. “I can’t save him.” He stared over my head and then met my eyes again. “But I can save you. In Delphi, you can be my oracle and I’ll withdraw the curse.”

  What would happen that would make me need saving?

  The god thought I’d desert my brother? Resentment made me brave. “You don’t know the maiden you say you love.”

  “It was your choice.” He mounted his pedestal and hardened to marble.

  I staggered to the bench and sat. Would I die soon after Hector had? Or might I live a full life? Should I look?

  I shouldn’t.

  But I could discover how far into the future I would find myself. Silly me, I still wanted to see my husband and find out how many children we had.

  Did I have to lie back again to see?

  No. The future was woven into me now.

  Six years from now, I worked at my loom in the women’s quarters. My expression had settled into sadness. I was unwed, or my husband had died—otherwise, I would have been weaving in his house. No baby’s cradle rocked near me.

  In six more years, I couldn’t find myself. Troy was rubble.

  Wisdom warned me not to visit my death, but I couldn’t resist. A laurel branch lay on the ground near my foot. I held the branch in my lap as if it might protect me.

  An older version of myself—but not old—stood at the prow of a ship, savoring the sea breeze. This me-to-be, whose tan face was tinted pink, looked prettier than I thought myself. The hem of my peplos had a green droplet design, probably woven by Mother.

  At my side was a tall man, regal, almost as old as Father was now. His arm rested heavily on my shoulder. I felt iron dislike for him, but I dared not step away.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. My death would be next.

  In the living room of a palace I didn’t recognize, a rageful woman I’d never met swayed before me. While my present self rocked back and forth on the bench, my future self heard screams, smelled blood, felt the bite of her knife.

  I died.

  4

  I threw myself on the grass and sobbed.

  Who was the angry woman? Why did she kill me? Did all the gods hate me?

  Please forgive me for anything I’ve done! Please spare Troy!

  When my tears finally stopped, I stood up and let the laurel go. I’d wept myself dry. I couldn’t bear to look ahead again for the events that led to my death—I could guess. Troy must have fallen in the war I’d glimpsed. If my parents hadn’t died, I’d have been separated from them—but probably at least Father was dead.

  Another time, I’d see. For now, I wanted to peer just a minute ahead.

  Soon, in the women’s quarters, Mother would stretch in her bed, roll over, and go back to sleep. How dear her face was, and her hand too, curled above the sheet.