in her fingers. “My brother is going to be upset.”
“As if he were ever going to discover a divine relic.”
“True,” Maia said. “Lysander can hardly tell east from west. I wonder if Uncle Ozias ever found a relic, though.”
Ozias had left the grove when the girls were little to become a relic hunter, to both of their fathers’ great dismay and anger. There had been a falling-out among the three brothers, hinging on the fact that Kirkos’s relic was unaccounted for. Ozias had believed the fallen god’s necklace had been buried with him in the grove, and they should dig up the god’s bones to claim it. Gregor and Nico had refused to allow it, and Ozias had left, disowning his family.
They did not expect to see Uncle Ozias again.
“Unlikely,” Evadne said. “My father thinks Uncle Ozias ended up in the quarry at Mithra.”
Maia scrunched her nose. “Gods, I hope Uncle Ozias is not there! That is where all the common murderers are sent.”
“Relic hunters often kill to get what they want.”
“Such morbid thoughts, Eva. Come, forget about the decree and help me weave crowns for Halcyon.”
The anxious butterflies returned to Evadne’s stomach as her family gathered in the common room to eat supper. Talk centered on the new edict at first—Lysander was, predictably, upset by it—but that conversation soon faded; there were far more important things to discuss. Like Halcyon.
Evadne and Maia sat on the floor and wove their olive branches into crowns—one for every member of their family to wear tomorrow to honor Halcyon. The weaving motions gave Evadne purpose, a comfort, until Lysander sprawled on the floor near them, picking the leaves off the branches.
“Lysander, stop!” Maia squawked.
Lysander ignored his sister as he tore another leaf. He was still indignant about the new decree; everyone knew he wanted to chase after relics, with or without his parents’ blessing. He wanted to be the first of their family to join the Magical Court.
“I wonder how many scars Halcyon has now,” he said.
The room fell silent. Evadne’s father, Gregor, froze on his bench, a piece of stew-drenched bread halfway to his mouth. And Evadne’s mother, Phaedra, who was mending a torn cloak, also went still, as if her hands had forgotten what to do with the needle and thread.
Aunt Lydia, Maia and Lysander’s mother, had been lighting the oil lamps because the last of the sunlight had drifted out the open window, and she appeared shocked at her son’s words. But it was Uncle Nico who was the first to respond, his bearded face wrinkled from squinting hours in the sunlight, his curly hair limned with gray as he continued to mend a pair of sandals on his lap.
“She will not have any, Lysander. You remember how swift Halcyon is. She was impossible to champion. And should she have scars . . . well, they would be marks of achievement.”
The pressure in the room eased as they began to reminisce about Halcyon.
“Remember how she beat all the village boys in a race?” Aunt Lydia said, voice thick with pride as she finished lighting the lamps. The firelight flickered through the room, a dance of gold and shadows.
“No one could best her,” Maia agreed. “There was that vile boy from Dree. Remember him, Eva? He thought he could beat her in a fighting match, but she proved him wrong twice. Laid him out cold on the ground in one punch. Glorious.”
Yes, Evadne thought, remembering. She spun two more crowns, and when the storm finally broke, she rose, ready to dismiss herself for bed.
“But, Pupa!” her father cried. “We have not sung tonight! You cannot go to bed yet.”
Her father would sing every night if he could convince Evadne to join him. He was also fond of nicknames. Long ago, he had dubbed both of his daughters: Halcyon was “Sprout,” and Evadne was “Pupa.” Pupa, as in insect larvae. When Evadne had learned what it meant, she’d been angry until he had told her it was the stage of transformation, when a butterfly was spinning her wings. Since then, they had made a game of finding cocoons in the grove.
“Sorry, Father,” Evadne said. “But I am too tired. Maia will sing with you tonight.”
Maia ceased her weaving, mouth agape. “Who, me? I can’t sing!”
Lysander huffed his agreement, only to earn a swat from Maia.
“We shall all sing tonight,” Phaedra said, setting aside her mending. “Save for you, Eva. I know you need rest.”
Her family began to sing the Harvest Song as