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surprising. Nikandra spread her hands. “This battle you’ve won,” she said. “Pray the Mother you find it worth the price.”
    Polyxena was braced for wrath and dire punishment. It dawned on her slowly that she had been punished. The longer she stood upright, the worse the pain was.
    She was bruised in every muscle and bone, and in parts of her that she had not known existed. When she tried to think past the moment, her mind felt scraped raw. If she had been turned inside out and beaten, she would have felt no worse.
    Somehow she walked, because she was too stubbornly proud to crawl. None of the priestesses offered to support her, nor would Attalos so much as look at her. They had enough to do with carrying Promeneia into the temple.
    If Promeneia died, it would be on Polyxena’s head. She stumbled toward the priestesses’ house, but before she reached the door, her feet carried her away from it. She made her way, hobbling like an old woman, through the grove and around the wall toward the king’s house.
    It was not that she meant to run away from the temple. She was no use to them there. If she faced the truth, she was worse than useless.
    She had only meant to demand an oracle. No one had warned her that the earth would try to break because of it. She had done something—raised something—that was not in any of the lessons she had learned so arduously.
    And yet the priestesses must have known she could do such a thing. Their lack of surprise and the air of—not ease, but certainly familiarity, with which Promeneia had dealt with the earth’s all-but-breaking spoke of knowledge they had not seen fit to share with Polyxena.
    What else did they know that she did not?
    No one in the king’s house could answer the questions that crowded in her, but she would rather have their ignorance than the secrets the priestesses had kept so conscientiously. She hoped they were sorry for it.
    Yes, she was angry. Not quite angry enough to do anything worse than she already had, but the sooner she left the temple, the better for them all.
    *   *   *
    The palace had escaped destruction. There was ash on the floors, jars of wine and oil broken, and men limping or nursing bruised or broken limbs, but the walls had held. In the queen’s house, Troas’ ladies swept and scrubbed and made the rooms clean again.
    Few of them were hurt. The Mother had protected them.
    The queen sat in her accustomed seat with a basket of wool and a spindle. She looked flustered, as if she had just sat down.
    She smoothed a stray curl off her forehead and smiled somewhat shakily at Polyxena. “You’re well. Good. Go and get clean, then help me spin. No matter how angry the gods are, we still need clothes on our backs.”
    She was wise. Two of the queen’s ladies took Polyxena in hand and carried her off to the bath.
    The water that streamed down her body was black with ash and mud. Her hair was clotted with it. Troas’ women scrubbed her until her skin stung, then anointed her with sweet oils and dressed her in soft clean wool.
    She only stirred when they tried to take the hatchling’s pouch away. She snatched at that and glared until they sighed and let her keep it, though she had to hold it in her hands while they washed her breast and shoulders. She did let them string a new, clean cord through its neck, blessing the snake’s stillness through all that upheaval. When it was safe around her neck again, it stirred and stretched before it went back to sleep.
    While her two attendants plaited her hair with deft fingers, she caught herself sliding into a doze. She blinked hard, willing herself to stay awake. Of all things she dreaded, sleep was among the worst. In sleep she might dream, and in dream she might finish what her folly had begun.
    Luckily for what peace of mind she had, she was soon done. Clean at last and fit to keep company with a queen, she walked back