Alcestis by Katharine Beutner Page A

sleep well. Phylomache had to shake me awake in midmorning, hissing at me to get up, get up, did I want to be late to my own wedding? Yawning, I obeyed, and found myself surrounded with servants bearing food and clothing and jewelry.
    “Phylomache,” I said in sleepy protest.
    “What?”
    “Can I piss first at least?” I shot a look toward the chamber pot. The servants, laughing, went back into the main room. Phylomache crossed her arms over her chest and watched me as I used the pot. She was trying hard to look disapproving.
    “It couldn’t wait,” I said when I was done, and giggled nervously, then put my hand over my mouth. “Oh. I can’t laugh during the ceremony.”
    “You will not laugh during the ceremony,” Phylomache said, half helpful, half threatening.
    “I will not laugh during the ceremony,” I echoed, and took a deep breath. “All right. What must I do first?”
    I ate while the servants slicked my legs with oil and then skimmed it off. They did the same to my belly, my back. The strigil bumped across my rib cage, tickling as it went. Phylomache lifted my hair off my neck as they worked. “You’ll have the ritual bath before the ceremony,” she said. “It should be just your hands, but watch what Admetus does. Just for that part, of course. For the rest of it you’ll have different duties.”
    “Yes, I understand that,” I murmured.
    Phylomache yanked at my hair a little. “Shush. You can’t talk back to his family like you do here, Alcestis. They’ll throw you out.”
    “Maybe Admetus likes women who speak up.”
    “No man likes women who speak up.” The servants had finished oiling me. Phylomache let my hair drop and took the clothes from the servant who had brought them. “Now, dress.”
    I wore a red bodice, a gold and red skirt with ornamental patches, red smudges on my lips and cheeks again. The body servant had painted a line along my eyelashes with charcoal ground in oil and warned me not to rub my eyes; the stuff lay thick on my eyelids. My hair was tied in a tight braid laced through with ribbons. It felt like I was dressing for any other festival. I wondered when I would begin to feel different, like a grown woman and a wife.
    Phylomache waved the servant away and gave the laces of my bodice one last tug.
    “Ow.”
    “Be glad I let you eat before the bodice went on.”
    The process took hours. Finally, when my hair was finished and I only needed to put on jewelry, some of the servants left to serve the noon meal. When they were out of the room, Phylomache turned serious, cupping my shoulders in her hands and looking into my eyes. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. “Use your best manners. Be polite to his parents. Be polite to his servants; they’ll listen better if they like you. Don’t make unreasonable demands.”
    “Not until I know them well at least,” I said, earning a glare. “I’m teasing, Phylomache. I’ll be too petrified to make any sort of demands.”
    “You, petrified?” Phylomache grinned at me and took my face in both hands, leaning in to kiss my nose—one of the only places she could safely touch without ruining my paint. I made myself sit still for the kiss. “I doubt it.”
    “The men are in the courtyard,” one of the servants called from the main quarters.
    “Oh,” Phylomache said, pulling back. “Are you ready? Everything must be packed by now. Come on, say goodbye to the girls.”
    I kissed the children carefully, Asteropia trying to wriggle away, Antinoe’s blue eyes blinking in confusion. “Goodbye, goodbye,” I said gaily, and then I felt it: the sudden tightening in my belly, a chill traveling beneath my skin. “Phylomache, here,” I said, and we embraced quickly. I laughed as I pulled away, a high, tremulous sound. “Do I have to go?”
    “Yes,” Phylomache said, eyelashes damp and sparkling. “You’ll be late. Go, go with them. Goodbye!”
    The servants hurried me out of the room. I looked back from the main