TWENTY-ONE

Her daughters were awake, too, Clymene saw as she slipped into the courtyard.

“Hail, Mother, and the gods’ blessing on us all,” recited Lampetia.

This was not simple rote courtesy. It would not be wise to begin a day without showing respect to both one’s parents and the gods.

“You’ll be cold, both of you,” said Clymene. “You should be wearing something warm.”

“We couldn’t sleep, Mother,” said Lampetia. “Phaethusa had a dream.”

They were garbed in lightly woven linen chitons, and the morning was chilly, dew dappling the courtyard bricks at their feet. They warmed their hands over a container of coals one of the servants looked after even now, stirring the embers to new heat.

“It’s almost as though winter has come back again,” said Clymene, running her hands over her arms. She did not want to hear about another of Phaethusa’s nightmares. Her eldest daughter was a big-eyed, silent young woman, with wild and haunted dreams.

“Or as if the sun is late in rising,” agreed Lampetia, absent-mindedly.

Lampetia held the griffin feather brought back by Phaeton, and cradled it in her hand.

“I’m sure Phaeton found a nice inn, with a soft pillow to rest his weary head,” she said at last.

Comfortable inns were not unheard of, Clymene knew, and it was considered bad luck to mistreat a traveler, especially a young man of position. But much more common were the lowly taverns, rough places if not unsafe, with bad wine sold for a shrewd price, and bugs in the ticking.

“And a dish of smoked fish to go with his honey-figs,” agreed Phaethusa, naming one of Phaeton’s favorite meals.

Clymene had to laugh. Both of her daughters spoke with a forced confidence – Clymene was touched by this. She kissed Lampetia, and Phaethusa, too. Perhaps Phaeton had heard a night-bird lifting a tune of longing and felt homesick – after one short night. Perhaps he was already on his way back to his family. It was possible, if the gods so willed it.

“I dreamed,” said Phaethusa, “that Phaeton was swimming in a river.”

This certainly did not sound like a nightmare, thought Clymene. Perhaps the dream foretold some wonderful event.

“He saw me,” continued Phaethusa, “and called out –”

Before Phaethusa could finish telling her dream, a sound interrupted her – a pulsing flutter, from high above.

Scattered leaves did a wild dance as a gust of wind blew over the roof tiles, and spun around the fountain, followed by an even greater wind, a warm, dry gale from the east that blew a speck of grit into Clymene’s eye. The wind trailed off into a stillness, and silence fell over the countryside.

But the silence was not perfect.

From far off came the sound of cries, far and wide – the startled calls of farmland fowl, geese and crows, and the birds of the wild, the swallow and the hawk.

“Whatever can be wrong?” asked Lampetia, shading her eyes against the sky.