The bed was comfortable physically, but its softness did little to ease Cathy's mental discomfort. Strange beds in strange rooms did that. This obviously wasn't home, and that prickling dread always creeping down her spine, always hovering just out of sight over her shoulder, served as a reminder to how far away from home she really was. She didn't have exhaustion on her side this second round, and that made it difficult to fall asleep.
Whoever decorated and furnished this bedroom neglected to put curtains on the window. Moonlight spilled through, casting an elongated silver rectangle on the floorboards. The empty fireplace grate stared right back at her in its shadowy perch, like a perpetually yawning, waiting mouth. She thought briefly of just scrambling up the chute to escape, as ridiculous as it sounded. She never gave the idea a shred of seriousness, but with nothing else to do unless count sheep, she entertained it if only to count the reasons why it was so stupid. So she would scramble up the sooty chimney, but then what? Not like she had the wings to fly away.
In the safety of her bedroom, away from discerning eyes, she was left free to wear what she pleased again. Instead of removing the dress, however, she simply grabbed one of her sweatshirts off the floor and pulled it overtop for warmth, just in case the bed's comforter slipped off overnight. Even though Cathy preferred not to wear the dress, it wasn't as though it was uncomfortable. The material felt pleasant enough, not itchy or abrasive, but at the same time it was a garment not typical of everyday wear, thus felt a little bizarre for Cathy. The only reason she kept it on was just in case she would be called to action at any moment and had to present herself before Maxie. Otherwise, the thing felt too fancy and indulgent for such barbarous surroundings, like she were parading her royalty to a barren wasteland.
None of that felt like it mattered, though; a comfortable bed, meals throughout the day, an overly-opulent shelter. Well, of course it mattered enough to keep up Cathy's strength and ease her suffering, not to mention boosting her morale. But even though she shared those all with four other people, she was still just a lonely little island unto herself. She couldn't rely on a single one of them. Her surroundings may have changed from outdoors to in, but she was still on her own, and if Calliope's warning was true, still in real danger. A comparatively regal shelter could not downplay that urgency. The clock was still running on Arkham City's overdue stay, and if nothing happened yet to shut it down, Cathy wondered if it was ever going to now. Escape, somehow, was her only answer.
Not tonight, though. No, not yet. Mainly because first of all, she lost her raft. She'd need to secure an alternative, and until then she would just be going in circles. Second, the timing had to be right. The cover of night would be perfect. Calculated timing was everything; that meant no getting lost, and no risks.
Cathy eyed the Greek Myths book she had deposited at the end of her bed. Of course she was going to read it. Relying solely on her sparse, elementary school education on the subject? She'd deserve to be killed.
Because the room's only sufficient light was angling itself across the floor, Cathy gathered the big book into her arms and entered the moonlight. Kneeling, she opened the book flat on the ground and lowered onto her belly, propping herself up on her elbows. She jumped straight to the index right to the back to pinpoint the pages which mentioned Hestia at all.
The offerings were disappointingly paltry. Whereas Zeus for example had nearly eleven listed page numbers to his name, Hestia only had but three—8, and 22-23.
Page eight was a total bust, it was just an introductory spread. The only point where Hestia was mentioned at all was in a breezed over list of the main six, the children of the titans Cronus and Rhea. At least she was able to confirm that Demeter was indeed one of the original siblings.
Pages twenty-two and twenty-three were a little more informative. They were a special section dedicated solely to Hestia. While this seemed good at first, Cathy held a hand flat on the glossy page to hold her place and skipped ahead, randomly flipping to the dedication of Hades—seven whole pages of information on him. Cathy thumbed ahead even further and found Posideon—six whole pages for the god of the sea. That wasn't too promising for her case.
She bumped back to her saved place and began reading.
Hestia was simultaneously the oldest and youngest. This bizarre accreditation was due to birth order, with her being the first-born. However, Cronus swallowed each of his children whole at the moment of their birth. When the sixth, Zeus, was smuggled away by his mother, he then returned years later once he'd grown. He overthrew his monstrous father, and the babies, now adults, were regurgitated in reverse order, thus Hestia emerging last.
Cathy skimmed on, taking mental notes on anything of importance. Goddess of the hearth, home, domesticity, family, so on and so on, Cathy already knew these. Modest? Cathy could do modest, it wasn't the most difficult trait to display. She had briefly taken drama classes as an elective in high school, she believed she could be fairly competent. Luckily, dance class as a child had taught her poise, which would give her a somewhat convincing ability to carry herself the way a goddess would. Body language was part of playing the role, too, wasn't it?
Cathy's blood simmered in its streams, synthesizing confidence where there was none. She could do this, she told herself bracingly. She didn't hold out in her apartment and come all this way just to stop here. The Olympus Building was surmountable if she just stayed afloat.
Persephone...
Calliope mentioned the girl who came before, the one who assumed the guise of the goddess Persephone and paid for it with her life. Cathy at least knew the tale of Persephone, how the young maiden was Hades' reluctant wife and spent the spring and summer seasons with her mother, Demeter, until she had to return to the Underworld for the other half of the year, thus the landscape greenery dying and giving way to winter.
But Maxie seemed so...happy. This couldn't have been the same guy who viciously murdered a girl here. Cathy thought back to when he caught her that first night in the lower floors. He seemed dangerous then, but it was also a possibility that he was protecting his fellow inhabitants of the Olympus Club. Maybe he never intended to kill her, just scare her into running away. Maybe he was just trying to shield his ragtag 'family' in the same way that Phil tried protected her with the pipe. Some of Maxie's lingering insanity could have still been there, the pieces that Arkham couldn't fix, but perhaps he was doing what Cathy was also trying to do: surviving as best they knew how.
Did Calliope have an ulterior motive in all this? Even though Cathy associated mostly with her, that was just circumstantial, it wasn't without reluctance. Calliope was dependable for information—if she were telling the entire truth, that is—but frankly, Cathy could feel the derision every time they conversed. Cathy was a burden, nothing more. An expendable extra. Would things have been any better for Cathy had Dionysus taken the lead and took her under his wing? Even Hephaestus? She didn't know, and the mystery of these strange people buzzed in her brain.
In the end, she had little proof of anybody's motivation.
Cathy decided it prudent to skim the entire book. Knowing of Hestia alone wasn't enough, Cathy needed to understand who Maxie was referencing whenever he made mention of a name. Dionysus additionally had only two pages in dedication, just like her, so she didn't feel as alone. Hephaestus got four. Worst off must have been Calliope, though, for that name only appeared in a list with the other Muses—nine in all—bearing nothing more than a single line of description each. She was the Muse of Epic Poetry, apparently, whose symbol was a writing tablet. That was all.
Cathy briefly wondered if they, too, once relied on this book just like her, or if she was the only one uneducated enough to not have known much of the mythology. Calliope never said anything about having to return it, maybe the book had outlived its usefulness to them. That brought with it another thought—how long had each of them been housed here?
Cathy hadn't realized how far her rectangle of light shifted. She only noticed it when it was already touching the left edge of her book and that it had stretched far to her right. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she'd seen a clock anywhere in the building. At least to the places she explored. Though the answer seemed quite obvious. Why would gods and goddesses need to tell time when they were immortal?
Sighing through her nose, Cathy closed the book and slid it far under the bed, nearer to her drawstring back in the shadows, wary of Calliope's warning to keep it secret. Jumping into bed and pulling the covers over her, she blankly watched the fireplace, reciting and rehearsing the figure everyone expected her to assume.