Chapter III: Dark Earth

The servants in my father's house grew less irritable in my sister's absence. The women hummed tunes remembered from the wedding feast; the men were less hesitant to be seen. Even Helice gave me a rare smile when she taught me to use a spindle.

I was small for my eleven years and Helice did not complain about my weight in her lap. Her worn hands guided my own; the flax slipped defiantly between my unskilled fingers. When I had begun to spin an even thread, Helice lowered her head and moved her lips to my ear. I expected her to utter me praise, but she whispered lowly as if she were to tell me a grand secret. And I should have known better; Helice never praised anyone but the gods.

"Men cannot know the sacred task of Fates," she started, her breath warm on my cheek; it smelled of olives. "The Fates frown at you, Ianthe. They can never cut your thread."

"Am I to live forever then?" I wondered, squirming in her lap, pretending to be amused. I turned my head in time to watch the old woman reach into one of the pouches tied to her girdle. Her hand emerged holding something within a closed palm and she motioned for me to hold out my hands for her. She emptied the contents from her hand: a soft pile of dark earth.

"What is this?" I demanded, lowering my voice with haste when I recognized Andromeda's tone in my ears. "Why do you do this?"

The old woman's face, to my surprise, brightened with a tight smile. She lowered her head and whispered into my ear again, confiding to me, it seemed, the secrets of the gods—and perhaps she was doing exactly that.

"Daughter of Earth," she breathed. She fumbled into a second pouch, smiling again that secretive smile. She sprinkled a handful of grain across my lap and I leapt from my place, the spindle flying from one hand and the soil from the other. "I cannot tell you what I see!" Helice said with a sudden desperation. "I was once a prophetess, you know—for Demeter."

I brushed the grain kernels from my tunic. "Do you see my husband?" I inquired, observing the grim look on Helice's face as she stared at me, almost dumbfounded. I heard her sigh.

"Your future is dark to me," she told me. "You cannot marry. You cannot see your cousin Eurydice again."

"You cannot keep me from seeing her," I assured her, resuming my task with the spindle in an attempt to ignore the old woman's words. I sat on the floor and bent my head to look at my hands and not Helice's wrinkled face. The prospect of not ever seeing Eurydice again was heavy on my heart. Frightened tears burned behind my eyes. It was not fair—but I was not going to listen to the raspy rambling of an old woman. "Father will arrange a marriage for me no matter what you say," I informed her smugly.

"Demeter will not let your gift go to waste, Ianthe," Helice told me solemnly, knowing that she would win my attention with those words.

I lifted my head to face her. "What are you talking about?" I asked meekly.

"You are favored by her, I think. Do you not dream dreams others do not? You are special."

I shook my head; all this was not true. "You have made a mistake," I insisted. "I have never seen a prophecy."

Helice pursed her lips together, the taste of lemon in her mouth. She abandoned my spinning and walked from the room, her sandals trampling the dirt on the floor: my future, she said. "You will sit on the tripod," she told me as she stood beneath the entryway. "You will utter her wisdom and advise men just as I have. If you do not, you will suffer what I have foreseen. Eurydice will die." Her words hung on the air like a fog.

I stared at her intently, unsure of what to say as Helice limped out of the room—and I never noticed before that she had a limp. "You are lying!" I cried, throwing the spindle and flax into the hearth, watching it writhe and blacken, turn to ash. I knew Helice did not hear me, but I did not care. If she was a priestess, she could read my thoughts.