Read an extract of Sweetbitter Song by Rosie Hewlett

The fire spluttered to life, causing the shadows to scatter away. Penelope watched the flames for a moment, skin bathed in their amber glow. I found my eyes tracing the slope of her neck, watching the shadows play in the hollow dip at the base of her throat. My stomach clenched like a fist, and I quickly diverted my attention to Penelope’s loom.

‘It’s a wedding veil,’ she said, following my gaze.

‘For you?’

‘Unfortunately.’

She moved towards it and began toying with a thread, making the hanging weights clack together. The sound summoned visions, unbid- den, of lazy, sun-gilded afternoons spent watching Penelope work as we giggled and chattered.

I blinked, forcing those memories back into their graves. ‘Why are you dressed as a slave?’

‘Let me look at your hand and I’ll tell you,’ Penelope countered, the spark of a challenge warming her voice.

‘I already told you, I’m fine.’ In truth my palm was throbbing fiercely, as were my knees from where I had fallen on the broken jug.

Still, the thought of Penelope tending to me made my skin crawl. ‘At least sit, will you?’

‘Is that a question or a command?’

Penelope’s face tightened, but she did not rise to my resentment.

Instead, she murmured a soft, ‘Please.’

I stalked across the room and collapsed into the chair. I did not know why I was acting like a sulking child. It was as if my leftover fear and anger had curdled with my exhaustion and now seeped out of me in clumps of bitter petulance.

Penelope did not seem to mind my behaviour, and I found her calmness irritating. How did she always have such a firm rein on her emotions?

‘You should bathe the cut,’ she said, setting a bowl of water down beside me and offering a fresh cloth. ‘Your knees, too.’

I said nothing as I took the rag from her, ignoring the tremor in my fingers as I dipped it into the water. I waited until Penelope walked away before I pressed the rag against my palm, stifling a hiss of pain. The shard had cut me deep when I had twisted it into Agamemnon’s leg. Still, it had been worth it.

‘Do you really think he won’t tell anyone what I did?’ I murmured without looking at her.

‘I think Agamemnon’s delicate ego will keep him quiet,’ she replied from across the room. ‘At least until Helen’s hand has been secured by his brother.’

‘What about after?’

Penelope’s back was turned to me as she murmured, ‘I cannot say.’ A cold, clammy panic crept over me as I dabbed at the wound. A moment later, Penelope appeared at my side and began refilling my empty cup.

‘Don’t.’ I clenched the word between my teeth. She paused. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s not the way this works.’

Carefully, she set the jug down before moving to retrieve the three- legged stool from beside her loom.

‘And what is “this”?’ Penelope asked as she placed the stool opposite me and perched herself upon it.

‘This.’ I motioned between us with the rag, now stained with my blood. ‘I serve you. So, just stop . . . twisting it, will you?’

She pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘But I don’t want you to serve me.’

‘Then why am I here?’

‘Because you’re injured.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘I never said you could not.’

‘I don’t need your pity.’

‘I’m not giving it.’

‘Then stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you pity me.’ The words came out in a heated rush, sharper than I’d intended. Still, Penelope did not even flinch, just folded her hands neatly in her lap and watched me with that infuriating patience of hers.

‘I do not pity you, Melantho,’ she said, firmer this time. I ignored her. She had always been too good at lying.

She is not my friend.