Neither of us has money. “Call him tomorrow. Harmothoe, change into this so you don’t attract attention, and we’ll go to my place.” She tossed her the shirt, advertising Ian’s production of Gypsy, and waved at the bathroom. But Harmothoe was either too intrigued by screenprinting or simply unconcerned about privacy. She stripped on the spot, handing gear (scabbard excepted) to Elena. So much for the myth of Amazons mutilating themselves to pull bows more easily. Harmothoe’s bosom was intact, though pale scars marked her body.
They headed downstairs. Elena set the alarm as they left the mansion. Good thing there’s no video. How would we explain two going in, three coming out? “Ian, thanks for everything.”
“Of course.” His hug felt wonderfully reassuring.
The ride to the dodgy part of Graustarkton overwhelmed Harmothoe. They drove in silence. Elena parked in her spot and noticed with dismay her nasty neighbor, Igor, lurking by the stairwell. Igor’s harassment never went beyond talk, but he made Elena terribly nervous. He’d done time for theft—who knew what else he could do?
“Hey, Doctor Jimenez, who’s yer friend? Hey, Doc! Hey! Izzat a sword? Hey, come on! Where’s some love for Igor?” He blocked the stairwell, legs spread, arms crossed.
“Ignore him,” Elena whispered. “We’ll use the other stairs.”
But Harmothoe approached the punk. “I have traveled far, and wish to rest. Stand aside.”
“Gonna make me? Nice tits, but a big mouth!” He leered.
Harmothoe smiled sweetly . . .
. . . and Igor was suddenly crumpled on the concrete with a bloody nose. “Bitch! I’m callin’ the cops!”
Elena thought quickly and gambled—successfully. “I’ll tell Manny you stole his stash last week.” Swearing, Igor skulked off. Big as he was, Manny was even bigger and had a fierce temper.
Elena dashed up the stairs, keys in her hand. “That was bad,” she said, fumbling with the lock. “Now he’ll be after me.”
“I do not think so.” Harmothoe radiated calm. “The world is different, but people are clearly the same. This man has an easily defeated spirit. If you had shown what Bulldog called ‘pluck,’ he would cease annoying you.”
I doubt it. Elena got pajamas (“Clothes only for sleeping?”) and fixed the futon for the Amazon. When she collapsed on her own bed, she didn’t sleep for hours, planning and worrying.
“You’ll be my assistant,” Elena told Harmothoe over breakfast. “At the museum, I’ll teach you about things.” About everything, apparently. Modern textiles, toothbrushes, Pop-Tarts, Anatolian history, internal combustion engines. Elena talked so much, her coffee got cold. “Okay, let’s buy some clothes . . . what’s wrong?”
Harmothoe was staring at a bottle of apple juice. “My mother had an apple orchard,” she said in a choked voice. But as quickly as the tears appeared, the steely resolve returned. “She is dust, as is the orchard. Let us go.”
They didn’t leave immediately; Harmothoe didn’t want to leave her sword behind. But when Elena pulled out of the garage, the Amazon screamed, “Go back, quickly!” She began choking and turning a funny color.
Elena threw the car in reverse and screeched back. The closer they got to the building, the better Harmothoe looked. “I’ll get it, stay there!” Don’t change back!
When she came back with the sword jammed in a plaid messenger bag, Harmothoe was breathing easily. Elena restarted the engine. “Okay. You have to stay near the sword. Why?”
“Naudar. My husband. A metalworker of renown.”
“Amazons had husbands?”
“We can’t make babies on our own,” Harmothoe snapped. “Are you as ignorant of sex as you are of warfare? Naudar had me shed blood into the molten metal to make it strong and earn the gods’ favor. I assume he did the same with the statue. There were enough blood-stained rags . . . when I died.” She stared out the window as they neared the mall. “I remember silence . . . then I was in the agora. I couldn’t see, but I could hear my tribe. I heard them age and die around me. Naudar, Polemusa, and Hippothoe, granddaughter Bremusa, so many more. Whenever one took my sword into battle, leaving Amaseia, silence enveloped me until its return. Bremusa’s girl, Alcibe—she had the sweetest voice—must have fallen to the enemy. All was stillness . . . until Rowbotham-Finch found both statue and weapon.”
Elena parked the car, searching for something to say. “Did you die in battle, too?”
“Of sorts. I died giving birth to Hippothoe.”
When Willard Pomeroy arrived that afternoon, he blinked at the muscular, dark-haired woman