The olive oil still lingers on your fingertips.

You press them to your lap, blotting gently at the wine-dark folds of your himation, though the fabric is already spotless. The movement is not for tidiness—it is for nerves. The kind that flutter like moths beneath your ribs, soft-winged but restless. You should be composed, a daughter of Icarius, a princess of Sparta, and now—now—a promised bride. A queen, they say, in waiting.

But you are seventeen, and your mouth tastes faintly of honeyed figs, and beside you sits a boy who is meant to become your husband.

Odysseus.

Not the strongest of the suitors, nor the most splendid. Not the one with the ivory-slick hair or the voice like thunder in a storm. No, he is something quieter. Stranger. He does not speak unless there is reason, and when he does, his words land like darts. Precise. Measured. Half of the room does not understand them. You do.

He sits like a man watching the sea before a voyage—hands still, but eyes already distant. Right now, he’s balancing a fig on the edge of his knife, watching it wobble like it’s part of a game only he understands.

You study him beneath lowered lashes, the way other women might study omens in birdflight. His nose is slightly crooked. His jaw bears the faintest nick of an old scar, one he does not speak of. And when he turns his head just so, the firelight gleams gold across the bridge of his brow.

Odysseus catches you watching.

You look away.

But not before you catch the corner of his mouth twitch.

A lyre sounds in the courtyard beyond—low and slow, a song you do not know. Laughter skims the air like thrown stones. But here, at the high table, time warps. Slows. The amphorae sweat with chilled wine. Your wrists are heavy with bronze. You are aware, suddenly, of every part of you—the arch of your back, the soft shift of fabric over your knees, the warmth of the boy beside you.

And so, your father rose, tall and straight-backed, his cloak gleaming with the weave of Sparta’s dye. A hush fell over the hall as he lifted his cup—gold-rimmed, heavy with wine—and spoke for all to hear.

My daughter—Penelope—Wise-browed and steadfast-hearted—Promised to Laertiades—May the gods look kindly upon this joining—May their days be long in honor and good favor.

And like clockwork, a chorus of raised cups, a rustle of shifting robes and clapping palms.

You kept your expression as composed as your father’s had taught you, eyes lifted, back straight. The words washed over you like warm rain—real, but slightly removed.

But Odysseus leaned in.

“Did he call you wise-browed or weathered? I heard both.”

You stifled a laugh. “It was ‘wise,’ and you heard true.”

“Then he knows you better than I thought,” he whispered, eyes glinting. “I’ve met gales more forgiving than you.”

At the head of the table, Icarius narrowed his eyes—ever so slightly. Odysseus caught it, and with the practiced grace of one raised at court, sat upright, solemn as a priest. He lifted his cup in answer to the toast, all princely poise.

A pause passed, filled with music and the scent of roasted figs and oil-drenched bread. The dancers prepared to take the floor. Torches sputtered softly in their bronze sconces.

Then, as though summoned by the quiet, Odysseus leaned in again.

Softer this time. Closer.

“I believe your father favors me.”

“He tolerates you,” you replied, lips barely moving.

"That is nearly favor, by noble standards." He did not blink. “In Ithaca, I’d call this fate.”

And his hand shifts on the bench, knuckles brushing lightly against your own.

"Is he watching?"