Lies We Sing to the Sea by Sarah Underwood

Author:Sarah Underwood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-12-10T00:00:00+00:00

XXXII

Cry Aloud for Sorrow

Leto

She did as Mathias had bid—ducked beneath the final tapestry—and emerged mere moments later in the corridor that led to her rooms. She made sure to stamp her feet loudly as she entered, so Melantho would know precisely how furious she was.

“I swear,” she announced, “Mathias is the most infuriating, cowardly—” She broke off abruptly as she laid eyes on Melantho.

Melantho’s face was twisted wildly; her hair was a mess. Her hands were clenched into tight, furious fists. There was dried blood on her golden wrist. “You’re here,” she said. “Good.”

Without another word, she brushed past Leto and marched out into the corridor. Bewildered, Leto followed.

Melantho’s stride was purposeful, her sandals slapping rhythmically against the marble floors; she pulled her chiton up in one hand to avoid catching its hem beneath her feet.

Leto could hardly keep up with her. “What’s the rush?”

“What’s the rush?” Melantho spun around without warning; Leto walked straight into her.

“Tonight,” said Melantho. “I hate this place, every wretched part of it. I cannot be here a moment longer. We try again tonight.” She turned and resumed her frantic pace.

“Tonight? Melantho, what—” Leto tried to catch her by the shoulder, to slow her, but Melantho shook her off. “Can you wait? I don’t understand!”

Melantho did not stop until she had reached Mathias’s rooms. There were no guards outside, which Leto suspected meant that there was probably no prince inside. Melantho paused there, allowing Leto to catch up to her, and then she flung the doors open.

The room was empty, as Leto had known it would be.

So was the next, hidden behind a gold curtain, and the next after that. Mathias was nowhere to be found. Some part of Leto was strangely relieved. They had seven days still—or six, now, since it was surely past midnight. They did not need to be this rash.

“He is not here, Melantho. We should go before he returns to find us snooping around his things again!”

“Again? I will remind you that I stayed in our chambers while you were off with your half-dressed prince. He must be here somewhere. He must be! Where else would the little rat go?”

“Melantho.” Something about the way that Melantho had spat the words half-dressed was beyond fury, beyond pain. Was it . . . jealousy? Leto caught her by the shoulder, hard, and forced her still. “He is not here. And even if we were to find him, I do not think you are in the state of mind to be trying anything! What is wrong with you?”

Melantho made a choking noise, a noise that sounded like a word. No, a name. A name that Leto had heard before, uttered by Melantho as she dreamed, her face screwed up in anguish.

Thalia.

Leto did not ask Melantho why Thalia’s name was always the first from her lips. She did not ask Melantho if it was Thalia she dreamed of each and every night as she curled up beside Leto. She merely took Melantho by the hand, drew her into her chest, and said, ever so quietly, “I am here, Melantho.

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