Virgilia hated birthdays. They implied an inconvenience she had come to loathe and a reminder that she did not like to be reminded of. The celebration itself was fine, the gifts were splendid albeit typical and the food was wonderful. However, the implication of ageing was a foe she faced every year with an ever-growing aversion.

In contrast, her husband had allowed himself to age. Deep wrinkles carved into his skin, his hands painted in brown freckles, and the white hair had been skillfully brushed backward. Except his lips, bursting in red colour and plump when touched, he had changed from the man she had married. His wrinkles had grown broader and his hair ever lighter.

Growing visibly old was no option for her, the wife of the President, and for as long as her skin remained smooth and her hair blonde instead of white, she liked to think of herself as safe in any such survival efforts. Faint memories of her mother haunted her every year around the same time. A beautiful woman, whose thin lips remained ever the same and the only unevenness on her face were the dimples when she smiled. Once Virgilia had grown to be about the same height, her mother prided herself in looking equally youthful.

Virgilia had not known the worries that crept up on her forehead or in her hair. How she had picked at the greying hairs since her early thirties. How a few wrinkles had appeared and disappeared by sheer force of will and, admittedly, a decent amount of money. She knew forty was not the number to worry about, but the new decade implied more worries leading to more wrinkles and grey hairs leading to more worries. If remaining youthful was the key to survival, an ever growing number attached to her implied age was bound to cause concern.

Therefore, Virgilia hated birthdays. They perfectly contradicted the long life she had planned to live.

Her birthday celebration's procedure was simple to remember; little ought to change about her appearance and just as little change had been applied to her annual celebration. It was not hers to plan, no, and she had grown rather indifferent to the morning breakfasts, the public celebration, and the dinners.

Her husband blew the same bouncy kiss on her cheeks as every year, congratulated her on her birthday as every year, and returned to his morning reports as every year. The breakfast itself did not differ significantly from their usual breakfasts as every morning. Only one deviation was noteworthy, and it slipped across the table as Virgilia sat down.

Her first gift, as every year for the past fifteen, was wrapped all in black and accompanied by an equally black ribbon with a white rose slipped underneath. He must have picked it this morning—its smell was picked up even before she had seen the present. Ever so sweet, too sweet, that it twisted at her stomach.

"You decorated it, too," her voice chirped an octave higher as her lips pushed into a hesitant smile. All in black. Like a funeral.

As every year, she plucked the rose from the gift, placed it aside her breakfast plate, and promised Coriolanus that she ought to put it in a vase later. The usual spot, on the window sill for him to see when he visited the gardens. Virgilia had arranged the vase already. It was a dance of formalities between them, each knowing the correct step to take, each prepared and practised. Did they look stiff to the jury?

Below its black wrapping paper, a small box uncovered with the print of a jewellery store in golden lettering. Her fingers placed along the edges of the box. Although her birthday was the same as every year, he refrained from giving her the same present each year. It was sweet, surely, that he put such thought into her day. Surely.

Pushing into the dark velvet, the jewellery box flipped open. Something twinkled in her eyes. Two larger diamond earrings.

Virgilia was no stranger to faking a smile. Coriolanus seemed a difficult man with gifts and she offered a haste kiss on his lips. A formal gesture, accompanied with repeating her gratitude to him and, this year around, a promise to put them on later. It was not that they weren't beautiful, no, most certainly were they pretty. What could diamond earrings not be paired with?

She wouldn't follow up on that promise. Perhaps, just perhaps, her days in the mansion were numbered.

Virgilia hated birthdays.

An hour later, Virgilia soaked in the warm bathwater. Sunken down til her ears, hair loosely floating above its surface, the muffled sounds on the other side of the door barely travelled across. She did not bother to concentrate or understand what the stylists were chatting about. It did not matter. No, her attention was fickle, even more so while her fingers twisted at the fragile skin of her left earlobe.

April was a fickle month, and so it seemed fitting that she had been born in its midst. When stormy clouds replaced sunny days within a manner of a quick and cold night. The florals blossoming from the earth while frost clung to them in the morning hours, turned into water by noon and dripped into the ground as if it had never existed. It was the month of change and uncertainty. She used to hate April for those faults. Now, she liked to think that she had grown into its unpredictability.

A sigh blew ripples into the water. At least Gratia had afforded her this small victory of quietness here. A bath taken in silence, dulling away at the next steps in her annual birthday celebration. Surrounded by warmth as if embraced, her thoughts glided to a different time. Almost two decades ago, she had clung to water's warm embrace, too. Her skin had turned into wrinkles then and she had hoped the water would take her once it sunk into the drain.

Marriage used to be a subject that turned her stomach into a vessel of emotions swirling inside her, dizzying her head and prompting a quickened giggle from her. Virgilia had liked to think with excitement about the day she would get married. Had the books she had read over and over not prepared her for a marriage with a charming gentleman and a reputation worthy to uphold?

Her elbows pushed against the cultured marble. Steady above the water's surface, fingers wrapped around her frame. Water pearled along the skin she feared was ageing terribly, too.

The books she had read. Those that offered comfort when moving into the very same living quarters that the stylists so relentlessly filled with gossip today. Lifeless. Emptied after the previous owner had passed away. No books on the shelf. No disarray on the then-empty desk. No empty books filled with flowers. No vanity desk displaying her own jewellery. There had been a singular rose in a transparent vase, no water. She would have been convinced of its artificiality had it not been resembling the one Coriolanus had gifted her the day they met.

The rose's death was long, painful, exaggerated over months as it withered away. Watching it seemed like its own horror. At the time the first white rose's smell had evaporated, surely, it must have clung to her, sinking beneath her clothes and taking all of her with it.

But the books. She had rarely touched something that was not designated to be hers or allowed to be read by her. Had her taste been shaped to fit such books—or such marriages? Reading the one she had encountered in the library, she had liked it alright. It had been different. What else was there to learn? To know? What had she missed simply because it had been withheld from her?

"Vee?" a knock, a creaking sound, and Gratia's head poked through the door.

New waves of water shaped and swashed against its containing marble. Virgilia sat upright, folded her arms around her kneecaps and looked at her palace agent. Splashing into her knees, unfolding back into the ocean inside her own home, the water adjusted.

"Time's up?" Virgilia asked.

Slipping through the door frame, the wooden entrance closed behind Gratia and the chatter from the living quarters washed away. She nodded, stoic and brief, and poured to the towels, steady hands sorting along as if the bathroom was her own. Her voice was one stream of words, tied together in the same way that ships broke through the waters, cutting through the ocean ahead and only stopping in their determination when they reached safe harbour.

It must have been something about the parade or the dinner or other festivities during this day. Virgilia had slipped toward different thoughts as the ripples in the water caught against the white edges. A mesmerising effect induced by her hands beneath their surface.

"You haven't listened, have you?" Gratia asked. Her voice was much louder and closer, standing right by the edge of the tub. All in black. Only the pin, a white rose, interrupted its colour scheme. Not quite her choice, of course.

"You … w—were talking about … the diamond supply of District One?"

Diamonds seemed the latest craze.

"Very funny." She did laugh, though. Not a genuine laugh designating it was a decent attempt at a joke, but the huffing of irregular breaths close enough to a hint of amusement. A small victory. "Get yourself dried. Here."

Gratia had the courtesy of looking the other way.

The cold outside of the water could not be avoided, but its harshness hit Virgilia all too sudden. She looked her agent over, the thin but rigid frame. Her short hair ended around her neck, sticking about in short bits of hair. This was a bold act of revolt in the Capitol's fashion world. Time and effort had seemed all too important no matter the trend. But then, Gratia did not need to make any statements, no, her job implied fading into the background. It seemed freeing.

Such thoughts all too naturally flooded along, circling around the inevitable as the bathtub burbled to breathe in the remaining water.

He had been in her thoughts the last evening. Imagining him sneak along the shadows to her bedside, wrapping his hands around her waist as the shadows covered her body. The leaves rustled in the depth of his voice, wind carrying an imaginative birthday wish into her ears. She had retraced the constellations he had shown her, her hand gestures replacing his, and wondered whether he knew about her birthday and whether a message of his were among those she would open.

Virgilia had avoided thinking about him for the entirety of the morning, but here, reminded of her duties as the cold crept through the towel, he took up space in her thoughts again.

"Hey, Vee," Gratia interrupted. She did not turn around, kept her gaze toward the window and its trees and shadows. A routine between them had been established; Gratia only turned her head when Virgilia stepped forward. She had been the most considerate in affording Virgilia a thin fraction of privacy that so rarely seemed to exist.

Dragging her feet to stand by Gratia's side was both a moment of quietness and a moment of dread. For one, she had to leave the bathtub behind and was closer to the festivities of today. As if a slow horror, knowing doom was about to be faced, and, yet, the quietness and calm settled.

Sun warmed her feet, then her arms and shoulders and finally came to kiss her bare face. Her feet settled next to her friend's, and the warm rays embraced her in spite of what awaited them outside of the door.

"We don't have much time for this, but I got you something small," Gratia began, keeping her view settled onto the window, past the trees and toward the Capitol remaining out of sight.

"For my birthday?" Virgilia asked.

She didn't need to look at her friend to know that Gratia scrunched her nose: "Don't pretend the Capitol isn't reminded of that every waking hour today."

Maybe the parade was a bit too much. Virgilia had never thought about attending being a dreadful act of labour for anyone else. Most wanted to shake her hands, and most consisted of little children and excited citizens dressed in vibrant colours. They made a staggering contrast to her husband and her.

"I've never …. No, you were never excited to go there," Virgilia said.

"Tougher than usual. The more people you surround yourself with, the more complex the situation."

"I understand."

A bit. Virgilia usually got lost in the parade, staring at them passing by and finding a comfortable space in her head all tucked away from her husband.

Gratia wasn't one of big words, which is what she liked about her, and possibly the other way around, too, never needing to expect Virgilia to talk her ear off or ponder on the complex. The question about time had been a new one, and, had Gratia been anyone other than herself, Coriolanus would have heard of her asking too many questions.

The wrapped item was plain and simple and handed to her in an unceremonious gesture. Joy remained present, colourful in design and heavier than expected, albeit not tremendously so. Fingers slid underneath the wrapping paper to undo the tape, pushing the paper upward as to leave it intact. The colour gave way for something highly familiar.

"You still do calligraphy, right?" Gratia's quick question followed, fooling anyone but Virgilia that she hadn't seen her write letters only last week. "I think you wanted to get a new pen."

The sun touched corners of her smile, itself glinting between the sleek object in between her fingers and the lingering gaze of a friend. She twisted it from one finger to the next, trained it into her right hand and felt its weight heavy with words that were much easier to come in writing, but never would sound as exquisite as the penmanship in the books. Still, writing came easier to her than speaking, allowing time to flow and her mind to focus. She was never a particularly gifted writer, no, merey repeating learned phrases. We would enjoy your visit to our home or Please review your schedule until… . Her writing rarely exceeded more than a few sentences to her correspondent, still, a carefully crafted letter with beautiful writing was the best she could offer. After all, impressions mattered.

Her feet turned toward her friend, and stopped short of a hug. Clothes. Right.

"Thank you," her voice resounded instead, each syllable a flow of warm wind across the fields of wildflowers behind the gardens. Touching the petals, sensing them right beneath her hands. Alive and reaching toward the sun.

Rare were the gifts of true intentions.

Most presents she was to open that day mattered little. Perfumes. Invitations. Clothes. Jewellery. Appropriate gifts, missing the personal touch. Gifts for the wife of the president, but not for her. Few knew that Virgilia Snow liked to press flowers or write her letters with an effort to beauty and impact. Hardly anyone cared, either, she was certain of that.

"I'm glad, Vee—" a knock, "they moved the schedule for the parade. We need to hurry a bit."

Despite the rush, the next hour was spent in readying the wife. Nails polished, hair dried and braided, makeup applied, dress fitted one last time.

At least, it did not require her active participation. The buzzing of chipped voices around her, raising her hands before asking her to do so, all moved with ease about.

Just above Gratia who had buried her head in notes for the day, did the patterned rectangle move into its vertical, closing with an intricate pattern. Above it, the ceiling swung into motion, having been touched in a light yellow and fled into geometric shapes. None was truly interesting, no waves or uneven lines, but rigid in its pattern and closed to any courage to do different. Most rooms were like that. Most that she had seen, anyhow, and Virgilia liked to think she had seen most.

The bathrobe stuck to her shoulders for as long as the dress was not yet needed and, here, without a distraction, her mind picked a different kind of feeling, not unlike the bathrobe, that had glided tenderly around her shoulders and kept her company for longer than expected. His jacket a few months ago.

She couldn't afford herself the luxury to think about this kind of embrace. The smell that had stuck to his collar once the initial surprise had worn off. But what else was there to do except to lose herself in her own thoughts? The team around her was deep in a conversation she certainly was not invited to join. So maybe the luxury to think back was now.

He had forgotten his jacket and she didn't care to remind him nor cared to take it off for the remainder of the evening. It wasn't much, anyhow, greeting him goodbye and floating to her bedroom. Taking the jacket off only then, exchanging her dress for a nightgown and falling into bed, at first without his, but getting up to wrap the jacket close around her.

She had fallen asleep surrounded by his warmth and smell.

Surely, it would be the only time she allowed herself such an indiscretion.

It had stayed in her possession until they met again, where she prepared by handing the suit jacket to the washing service. They had spent time together fixing one of his older watches and finished it just before her birthday. He had told her about a few more of the constellations and what they meant, but it hadn't quite been the same, sitting downstairs in the sun room knowing the guards and avoces were always close by. Listening to him not from up close, but the opposite side of the table where the only physical presence she could sense was their feet bumping into each other once. Sometimes, she had wished they could sit shoulder to shoulder again and it had rendered her speechless with a shiver across her spine.

At times he had asked about her lack of words, which Coriolanus had never done nor noticed, and she had tried her best not to look up from the watch with a red face.

Plutarch, thinking or even speaking his first name still filled her with an unexpected softness, had had his round birthday a few weeks after Christmas and before he returned to fix the watch. She had written him a formal letter after having practised his name a few times on an empty paper. His name—no, him entirely—would not have been done justice had she placed any ink on the card before figuring out how to write each letter of his name perfectly. The underline following the h was too important. Of course, she had written to him a few times before, but never using his first name. It had seemed too personal. In addition to the letter she had attached a small gift and received a delightful response not a week later. Was it foolish to hope he would know her birthday? Foolish to hope she would receive a letter, too, where every word she could soak up, read and reread until her eyes grew tired?

She knew it was unwise to hope. Nothing good had ever come from hoping.

The ride down to the city was not a long one. They had cleared roads as much as they had cleared the plaza. Her husband, always by her side, huffed and puffed inside the car, complained about policies, and busied both his hands with reading papers. He only gripped hers, too tight as every year, when they left the car.

They made up the stairs with greater difficulty, and enough to deepen the wrinkle between Coriolanus' brow. Hands had to be shaken, children ought to be hugged, and thanks had to be given to those who expressed their well wishes.

Virgilia was never certain whether they cared; about her or her husband, albeit Coriolanus had begrudgingly announced how much they liked her which seemed quite so entirely wrong or whether they gathered for more selfish reasons.

It was likely the latter.

They sat in their usual spaces, her husband turned to advisors and laughed about something she did not bother to decipher. She formally placed her hands on her lap and pulled at the gloves on each finger, undoing them and pushing them back on. Coriolanus invited, and his advisors had come. A particularly soft face among the stoic and harsh edges of sharp chins and thin jawlines was not among them.

Carried along the winds, those that rattled through her hair like leaves on a tree, was faint music. Time to begin, to watch people from further away move along the street in mesmerising synchronism. Bones wrapped around her hand, fingers disturbing the space in between hers and gripped tight around her palm. She sensed movement from his side, but retained her gaze on the street ahead. Was it his smell? It had gotten worse in the past years and the rose around his collar no longer covered it in such close proximity. It had not been the first time she noticed. His words about the parade drowned in the quiet music, drowned away in its attempts of sweetness as if words of love had attached themselves to her husband's tongue. Any such tries had been relentless in their opposition.

Her heart beat rapidly, in anguish, bolstered against her chest as if it wanted to be noticed right then and there, nothing worse she could imagine, and despite knowing neither her heart nor her voice were heard on any screens or for anyone despite him, she decided against trying herself at gauging his words and forming a daunting reply.

He leaned back soon enough, as the band, the same as every year, bounced its music forward from one stage to the next. As if the street had always been meant for music, constructed in its shape and buildings to allow it to keep its sound and spring up from one side of the audience to the other.

Coriolanus did not let go of her hand, and she moved into quiet acceptance, incapable of fully leaving the space by his side behind.

It had not been the same music, not blasted into her ears when she had sat outside and watched the stars. Crows had cawed behind the dark trees much louder than the music.

Her head turned, tore its gaze from the band below as someone stepped down the stairs. A faint figure, their bright dress swinging along their knees.

She had seen him that dark night. Illuminated by colours from the mansion. He had looked quite handsome. His cheeks had been tinted in purple and yellow light. Warm, just as warm as the coat.

Skin moved against skin, bone pressed hard against hers as her husband's hand moved within her own. His presence was larger than that of the band, entirely consuming her once more in its disturbing, prickling tension.

His voice was that of leaves rustled by a warm summer's wind. It had more lows than highs, but he made for a wonderful storyteller. If not for the music, there and here, she could have plunged back into the bears and constellations. The Andromeda and the harsh sea. He had quite such a way with words. They had been close beforehand, standing by each other's side at the gallery, but he had been distracted, looking up into the night sky when the freckles on his cheeks and forehead and chin had formed their own constellations. Beautiful, tinted in purple and yellow and blue and if she hadn't been able to trace them along with her fingers, at least she had done so with her gaze.

The music faded away and the tightness around her hand released. Red and white underneath its gloves, Virgilia joined the applause.

What would come next was worse, it always was, every single year.

The family dinner.

They navigated through the crowd, breaking it into two upon the sight of her husband moving ahead. There was a tug behind her, light fingers gracing her sleeve and a plain voice that sounded all too familiar.

"Heading to the cars."

"Gratia." Virgilia's pace slowed.

"Yes?"

"Do you know if he—did he send any…" Her voice traced into nothingness, losing itself in what to ask, in the inevitability of speaking his name. It seemed wrong, so close to Coriolanus, when waves of people swayed against their sides and endangered their journey to safe harbour.

She made a fool of herself for entertaining such thoughts, anyhow.

"Who?" A pause. "Oh."

Quietness drowned them in the conversations from left and right and behind, deep, all at once, and impossible to discern.

"Sorry, I don't know, Vee. I can check if you'd want me to."

"That would be… it would be nice. Thank you."

She could feel her slip away, still present behind Virgilia, but their conversation slipped. Once they would reach the car, there was no second chance.

"Can you have it on my desk after dinner?"

"That gift better be worth it." She didn't need to turn around to know the bright grin plastered on her agent's face.

Her husband had had one child with his previous wife. By all accounts, the woman had been beautiful but old. Died not too long before Coriolanus had remarried, almost twenty years ago now. It had been a blessing that Coriolanus did not have any more interest in heirs and Virgilia could remain childless, only needing to take care of one boy. He grew up fast—which Virgilia considered a blessing—and he had since achieved to bring about two more Snows. It was easier pretending she liked the girls, both too young to properly speak, and she was certain her husband had been easier to like when he had been their age, too.

Snow was always better endured from a distance; when one did not stand in its midst having to persist through the cold.

Equally, she endured the evening. Thanking her stepson for coming, eating dinner while him and Coriolanus had gone to discuss topics beyond her imagination. Trying to comprehend them would require too much attention paid on either, so she ate her dinner and talked with his wife who rivalled Virgilia in her appearance, but there was hope in her eyes unlike what Virgilia had seen in that of either men.

It would extinguish, one day. She didn't have the heart to think back to her own eyes when Coriolanus had fewer wrinkles and a warmer smile. As every year, she lacked the courage to tell the woman by her side the truth.

Her thoughts were adrift, elsewhere in the mansion, haunting the rooms for a quieter place. Waiting until the goodbyes were done, the waves and thin smiles plastered on their faces, and the strange warmth of the candles extinguished. Coriolanus pecked a formal kiss on her cheeks and left at the open doorway. The night had grown cold, her shoulders wrapped in goosebumps, and the traces of his son remained fresh on the pavement. Their silhouettes disappeared into the night and relief bolstered her heart.

The mansion was quietly asleep at night. Only essential staff hushed about, most avoces had gone to sleep and fewer guards patrolled the place. She undid her high heels by the doorstep and rushed up the stairs. Feeling lighter and younger than all day long, she rushed down the hallway toward her living quarters. The door closed with a thud behind her and, through the darkness, her relieved giggle echoed in the room. No one present told her to go there, shake those hands, or force her into a conversation about the current economy.

Undoing the bun, golden strands of hair fell straight down her shoulder, tempting her to leave the dress behind on the couch as she had just begun to unzip it when noticing the rectangular present on the couch table. A thrill of anticipation jolted through her body, but she moved through the darkness first, put her nightgown on and prepared for the night.

His present was heavy. She carried it into the bedroom, placed it onto the bed and bent one leg close to her while the other stretched out. Her heart raced at the sight before her.

Plutarch had put effort into the decoration. A beautiful wrapping paper accompanied with a bow. A letter had been placed in between, its colour the same as the paper and she pulled it away before opening the card. Lifting it against her nose, there was nothing particular about it except for the paper smell, but she tried herself at conjuring the smell of his aftershave again. Her name had been written on the envelope, such a fine imprint that she ran her thumb across.

Virgilia's heart jumped at the thought that he had written this, that he had written something for her eyes only, and he had written her name down in such fine print.

She had never received a letter from a lover. But no, of course, Plutarch was no lover, no, and liking him was equally as wrong… of course.

Still, her heart rushed at the thought of reading the letter and her fingers struggled to open the envelope without tearing at it or letting her shaking hands take the best of her.

Dear Virgilia,

He started with a "Dear". And her first name was written in his handsome handwriting. How beautiful it looked like that, feeling as if it had always been meant to be written in this exact way. The V began with a circle before it turned downward and the g interrupted the writing, briefly, due to its end scratching in an edge to underline the previous letters.

It was the most beautiful way she had ever seen her name written.

Her heart pounded in her chest, flustered fingers moved along his writing as her eyes jumped to the next line.

I hope this letter finds you well. Have a happy birthday and may this gift keep you good company. I look forward to hearing all about the joys you might find with this present.

Best wishes,

Plutarch Heavensbee

How well the letter did find her, curled together on her bed, all alone, but with a delighted heart and excitement bursting beneath her fingertips! She touched his writing ever so carefully as if she could trace along the time and moment he had written it. Then, looking up as to assure truly no one was there, she folded the paper into smaller parts, lining up some words and letting some phrases disappear beneath the folds. It took a moment, concentration evident along the crease between her brows, until his own writing spoke something that ached and charmed her heart all the same:

Virgilia Heavensbee

She stared at the writing, dimly lit from the night lamp, but it aided in the secretive nature of spelling out the emotions experienced the past months. Looking at it, her first name attached to his surname seemed so right. It certainly sounded better than Snow, but, now, whatever bit of reluctance had reminded her to remain faithful to her childhood teachings and adult loyalty, evaporated before her eyes.

Hadn't it been evident she had been enamoured with him since the first time they met?

Whatever the truth must be, she was certain it would only be wrong to deny her heart its curiosity. Among those many curiosities was the package in front of her, unopened yet, and she quickly unfolded the letter to its original state before proceeding. It weighed quite a lot and she did not account for manners when scraping away at the paper, disregarding to undo the tape first.

A book.

It was not new, no, dents and scratches all beneath her touch. A golden horse graced the cover. It stood on its back hooves, some figure distinctly seated on the animal but covered by a pair of beautifully detailed wings. Brushing her thumb across, the horse was slightly elevated and it seemed to reflect the light from the nightstand. Below the animal was a headline stretching across the cover and spelling Greek Mythology from left to right. The lettering, too, was elevated as she moved her fingers across.

Virgilia knew fairly little about the time that had come before Panem. There were few who did, and she faintly recognised that Greek had something to do with the past, but that was all. No one contemplated about countries long gone and, surely, they must have a reason why they no longer existed. Unlike Panem, those countries were no longer spoken about. To her, it only could imply that they failed—all in contrast to the sole nation in place now. Even her brother and father had not talked of the olden days and her husband seemed to hold little regard for such histories. It was by no means dangerous to talk about the existence of such countries, but what was there to talk about if Panem was the only nation worth considering? And perceiving Panem as anything less surely reached the means of treachery.

His gift was a daring one and not at all unlike how she thought of him.

Virgilia opened the cover and flipped toward the table detailing its content. One story already sounded rather family, that of Andromeda, though whatever those pages contained, it would not match up with the depth of his voice telling the myth. That day, he had been quite so close, and his voice had brought life to the people in the tale. Another one had been familiar, its first chapter bearing strong resemblance to the library book she had found in her husband's collection. Zeus, the story read, and how he had become the ruler of his time.

She skipped the chapter and dove into the next tale, curled together underneath the sheets and read until the night lamp faded into irrelevance as the sun gave way to a new day.