OPHELIA

  "COME FAST OPHELIA." Andromeda's face is still cursed a sickly shade of green as she barges past me to the top deck, "I cannot bear to be on this damned ship another second."

  It is that very thought that causes me to gather my belongings even slower before ascending to the surface. The sheer heat is what catches me off guard at first; cruel and unforgiving with no breeze to dull the scorch.
  The land is near, any second now we may arrive, but for some strange reason, I try not to look at it. Maybe I am afraid of what I may see.

  Saltwater spits high as a wave thrashes against the side of the ship and I stumble, one of the sailors grabbing my arm at once to right me.
  I mumble a thank you as several more sailors work hard, running about and pulling ropes and such in an effort to slow the ship as it glides into the port, and then finally planting a rusty iron anchor beneath the water as it pulls up alongside the dock. Their skins are bronze and haggard from too much sun.

  My eldest sister clutches to the wooden rail as if it's the last thing rooting her to this earth, her knuckles are white and for a moment she looks as if she may be sick again.

  The gangplank is lowered right as Ascella appears alongside our father from beneath the deck. Like me, she wears a tunic made from rich cloth, the same colour of the cornflower that represents house Onasis, though I myself have always favoured a far darker scarlet.
  The thought brings about a pang of want in my chest, realising that the pomegranates I so loved did not grow on these lands as they did at home. Lands like these favoured lemons; those bitter, horrid things that my sister's mother often resembled.

  Albeit flower or fruit, at the end of the day when twilight came and the sunset did lie everything became grey. Flowers would die and fruit would rot. In the end, nothing mattered, it would all rejoin the earth from whence it came. Even me.

  — Those are my thoughts as we disembark.

  The solid ground has never felt so strange, so much so that it takes me a few moments to adjust to this new sensation. Andromeda looks relieved to the point she may cry. And she does not pause to take in her surroundings, instead practically running to the carriage that awaits our arrival as if a second longer and she will be dragged back onto the ship.

  I, however, find myself entirely unable to move. Ascella slips her hand into mine, "Beautiful isn't it — yet also rather strange, it feels as if something's... missing?"

  "Flowers," I reply but my voice comes out hoarse and scratchy, so I clear my throat and try again. "There are no flowers."

  Her eyes cast over the scene before she nods in solemn agreement.

  This land is harsh. This land is unforgiving. No flowers grow here, unable to settle in this merciless climate. This is no place for house Onasis and its cornflower kindness.

  And as I stare into the distance I see the landscape is carved cruel. For beyond this little place of respite and so far off that it is grey with mist, a great Mountain stands proud. The city below appears to cower before it, the houses short and squat with their terracotta tiled roofs.

  "Oh my..." I hear Acella whisper, her hand growing lax in mine at what stood before her. I scan the horizon, trying to follow her gaze. And then I see it; sitting cradled upon the mountain as if the great rock is a throne. The palace of the Spartan King, just as noble and afeared as the man himself. I wasn't too sure what I had expected from a man who was proud enough to declare himself the son of Zeus, yet somehow this still stole my breath.

"Come on," I say, tugging her slightly. A feeling of unease settling over me at the sight of the palace. "We don't want to keep father waiting."

• • •

  THE CARRIAGE RIDE IS SILENT. Ascella sleeps, Andromeda reads and father stares straight ahead as if his daughters do not exist. That at least has not changed.
  I wonder if he's trying to distance himself from us, as I'd noticed he was especially unreachable in the passing days. Maybe that's what he had to do to make the final separation bearable. We all knew it was coming, we all knew when.

  He is trying to detach himself from us; much in the same way, we were never allowed to name the lambs or calves back home. Father knew that if we allowed ourselves feel with heart, it would inevitably lead to hurt — or so he said. Though Ascella always named the fauna, and so, when spring sang its final song, her tears would always fall. Year after year, she never learned.

  One spring the harvest had been especially cruel. She had tried to hide one calf she'd grown particularly fond of in the small thicket of woods just beyond our land, behind the barn. She had named it Demaris; raising by herself for weeks. And she'd succeeded too, at least for a while...

  When Demaris was eventually found by one of the farm boys, father had her slain and most of her meat was sold to the butcher. He gave her bones to the dogs, who toyed with them for months. But perhaps worst of all he kept her pelt as a reminder to our poor sister, with heart comes with hurt, and hung it above his bed.

  Or maybe the worst part was the way Ascella had screamed and cried, throwing up her grief until her lips were bloody and ravaged with bile when she had found out of Demaris' slaughter.

  Father had kept some of the meat, the choicest cuts, and they fed our family for weeks. Needless to say, Ascella did not eat. During that time she didn't do much of anything except stare blankly out her window and cry, the angles of her gentle face sharpening day by day.

  I stare at her now as she sits sleeping across from me in the ever-changing light of the carriage. Even now she still holds the faintest whisper of that hollow hunger in her cheeks, where her bones are keen and angular, only now I think it is by choice. In that way she resembles Andromeda.

  Unlike my sisters, my face is softer, rounded, and childlike in comparison. Deep down I cannot help but hate myself for it, though I know I shouldn't. Though I'd never dare tell her, I'd always wished to look as piercing as Andromeda.

  Her brows are whetted and drawn in as she stares down at her book, lost in her own little world of worthless words and peppermint-scented pages. Somehow, even unaware she manages to look threatening — though not in the violent way father does; adorned in scars heavy-set frown lines. Instead, Andromeda's weapon is her words. She looks wise, as if she may tear me apart with little more than a string of syllables — and she had, many a time.

  My flesh healed fast, my pride did not.

  A flash of fallow catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. The colour is bright and undisturbed against its leafy bed. At first, there is only one tree, then a minute later I spy a second. Before long there is an orchard of the strange fruit, entirely unlike any I had seen before. Though I had seen lemons before, they were always browning and sour from weeks upon ships. Perhaps these weren't even lemons at all, they certainly didn't look like them.

  The carriage slows, drawing close to this foreign foliage as it turns a corner and the ground beneath goes from cobble to dirt.

  "Ophelia, what on earth are you doing?" My father scolds as I lean out of the carriage window, hands outstretched to snag a fruit. One of the lurid things finds my palm and I use the momentum of the carriage to tug it free. The branch rebounds and I duck quickly back into the carriage to avoid it hitting me. It is just as well because my father's rough hand wrapped around my wrist, yanking me back to my seat. "Sit down this instant!"

  I should really apologise, but I do not. Instead, I examine the fruit, tossing it between my palms. It's about the size of my fist, sturdy and the colour of newly born sun. Father scowls at me. "Do not —,"

  — But it is too late, I have already bitten into the horrid fruit.

  My face screws up in disgust as I spit out the mouthful. It is the worst thing I have ever tasted, and for a moment I am worried the fruit was poisoned. But even father wouldn't be as cruel as to watch unaffected as his daughter died before him. This is how I know I am safe.

  Still, my tastebuds have been assaulted in a way far worse than the heat of Pala's cooking ever could. Spices I can handle, this I cannot.

  "What is that?" I cough, still unable to rid my tongue of the vile taste. Andromeda is watching me, a look of mild amusement toying with her tan features, "It's called a lemon."

  " — But why!" I splutter through the unbearable taste. The fruit is worse than those back home, a thousand times worse. "Why would they grow such a horrid fruit!"

  My sister shrugs, returning to her book as if I am no longer interesting enough to be worthy of her attention, "Some people enjoy them."

  I launch the remainder of the lemon out of the window, using the fruit to rid some of my anger as it splits against the ground. "— Some people are mad!"