The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller Page A

hiking, and a new belt-knife. And last, I passed him the statue. He examined it, his fingertips moving over the small marks my knife had left behind.
    “It’s you,” I said, grinning foolishly.
    He looked up, and there was bright pleasure in his eyes.
    “I know,” he said.
    O NE EVENING, not long after, we stayed late beside the fire’s embers. Achilles had been gone for much of the afternoon—Thetis had come and kept him longer even than usual. Now he was playing my mother’s lyre. The music was quiet and bright as the stars over our heads.
    Next to me, I heard Chiron yawn, settle more deeply onto his folded legs. A moment later the lyre ceased, and Achilles’ voice came loud in the darkness. “Are you weary, Chiron?”
    “I am.”
    “Then we will leave you to your rest.”
    He was not usually so quick to go, nor to speak for me, but I was tired myself and did not object. He rose and bade Chiron good night, turning for the cave. I stretched, soaked up a few more moments of firelight, and followed.
    Inside the cave, Achilles was already in bed, his face damp from a wash at the spring. I washed too, the water cool across my forehead.
    He said, “You didn’t ask me about my mother’s visit yet.”
    I said, “How is she?”
    “She is well.” This was the answer he always gave. It was why I sometimes did not ask him.
    “Good.” I lifted a handful of water, to rinse the soap off my face. We made it from the oil of olives, and it still smelled faintly of them, rich and buttery.
    Achilles spoke again. “She says she cannot see us here.”
    I had not been expecting him to say more. “Hmmm?”
    “She cannot see us here. On Pelion.”
    There was something in his voice, a strain. I turned to him. “What do you mean?”
    His eyes studied the ceiling. “She says—I asked her if she watches us here.” His voice was high. “She says, she does not.”
    There was silence in the cave. Silence, but for the sound of the slowly draining water.
    “Oh,” I said.
    “I wished to tell you. Because—” He paused. “I thought you would wish to know. She—” He hesitated again. “She was not pleased that I asked her.”
    “She was not pleased,” I repeated. I felt dizzy, my mind turning and turning through his words. She cannot see us. I realized that I was standing half-frozen by the water basin, the towel still raised to my chin. I forced myself to put down the cloth, to move to the bed. There was a wildness in me, of hope and terror.
    I pulled back the covers and lay down on bedding already warm from his skin. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.
    “Are you—pleased with her answer?” I said, finally.
    “Yes,” he said.
    We lay there a moment, in that strained and living silence. Usually at night we would tell each other jokes or stories. The ceiling above us was painted with the stars, and if we grew tired of talking, we would point to them. “Orion,” I would say, following his finger. “The Pleiades.”
    But tonight there was nothing. I closed my eyes and waited, long minutes, until I guessed he was asleep. Then I turned to look at him.
    He was on his side, watching me. I had not heard him turn. I never hear him . He was utterly motionless, that stillness that was his alone. I breathed, and was aware of the bare stretch of dark pillow between us.
    He leaned forward.
    Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.
    I was trembling, afraid to put him to flight. I did not know what to do, what he would like. I kissed his neck, the span of his chest, and tasted the salt. He seemed to swell beneath my touch, to ripen. He smelled like almonds and earth. He pressed against me, crushing my lips to wine.
    He went still as I took him in my hand, soft as the delicate velvet of petals. I knew Achilles’ golden skin and the curve of