to you. I thought it was longing. Something you kept close, like a secret heart.”
“I kept it close because I was ashamed. I did not want you to hear how she had preferred my father all along.”
She is a fool. But I did not say it.
“I do not want to go to Sparta,” he said. “Nor do I want to stay here. I think you know where I would like to be.”
“You cannot come,” I said. “It is not safe for mortals.”
“I suspect it is not safe at all. You should see your face. You cannot hide either.”
What is my face like? I wanted to ask. Instead I said, “You would leave your mother?”
“She will be well here. And content, I think.”
Wood dust floated past, fragrant in the air. It was the same smell that rose from his skin when he carved. I felt reckless suddenly. Sick of all my fretting and convincing, my careful plotting. It came to some by nature, but not to me.
“If you want to join me, I will not stop you,” I said. “We leave at dawn.”
I made my preparations and he made his. We worked until the sky began to pale. The ship was filled with all the stores it could hold: cheese and toasted barley, fruits dried and fresh. Telemachus added fishing nets and oars, extra rope and knives, all of it carefully stowed and strapped in its place. With rollers we pushed the boat down to the sea, its hull effortlessly slipping through the breakers. Penelope stood on the shore to wave us off. Telemachus had gone alone to tell her he was leaving. Whatever she thought of it she kept from her face.
Telemachus lifted the sail. The storm was past. The winds were fresh and blowing well. They caught us, and we glided through the bay. I looked back at Aiaia. Twice in all my days I had seen her dwindling behind me. The water grew between us, and her cliffs shrank. I could taste the salt spray on my lips. All around were those silver-scrolling waves. No thunderbolt came. I was free.
No, I thought. Not yet.
“Where do we go?” Telemachus’ hand waited on the rudder.
The last time I had spoken her name aloud had been to his father. “To the straits,” I said. “To Scylla.”
I watched the words register. He maneuvered the prow with competent hands.
“You are not frightened?”
“You warned me it was not safe,” he said. “I do not think being frightened will help.”
The sea flowed by. We passed the island where I had stopped with Daedalus on the way to Crete. The beach was still there, and I glimpsed a grove of almond trees. The storm-blasted poplar would be long gone by now, crumbled to earth.
A pale smudge appeared on the horizon. With each hour it grew, belling like smoke. I knew what it was. “Pull down the sail,” I said. “We have business here first.”
Over the rail we caught twelve fish, large as we could find. They thrashed, spraying cold drops of salt across the deck. I pinched my herbs into their gasping mouths and spoke the word. The old cracking sound, the tearing of flesh, and then they were fish no more, but twelve rams, fat and addled. They jostled, eyes rolling, packed against each other in the small space. It was a blessing—they would not have been able to stand otherwise. They were not used to having feet.
Telemachus had to climb over them to get to the oars. “It may be a little hard to row.”
“They will not be here long.”
He frowned at one. “Do they taste like mutton?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted from my herb bag the small clay pot that I had filled the night before. It was stoppered with wax and had a looped handle. With a length of leather cord, I tied it around the largest ram’s neck.
We unfurled the sail. I had warned Telemachus about the mist and spray, and he had a pair of oars ready in makeshift locks. They were awkward, for the boat was meant for sails, but they would help us through if the wind died completely. “We must keep moving,” I told him. “No matter what.”
He nodded, as if it would be that easy. I knew better. The spear was in my hand, tipped with its poisonous spine, but I had seen how fast she was. I had told Odysseus once that there was no withstanding her. Yet here I was again.
Lightly, I touched Telemachus’