Alcestis Read Online Free

curse?”
    “Shut your mouth,” Pisidice said. “She’s ill—it’s not a curse. Apollo will heal her.”
    For the first time that thought did not instantly soothe me. Hippothoe’s hair was slicked to her skull with sweat. I smoothed strands away from her eyes, over her fine, hot skin. I couldn’t seem to swallow properly, as if her struggle for breath had spread to my own body. “We’ll take her to the kitchens,” I said. “Once the men get here.”
    In the outer room there was a commotion, high-pitched chatter and lower voices answering. The head maid rushed into the bedchamber, her shift open at the neck and her heavy breasts swinging beneath it. She bent over Hippothoe, put a hand on my sister’s forehead, then felt her fluttering throat and heaving chest. “How long has she been this way?” she demanded, looking at Pisidice.
    “Not long,” I said. “I just woke. I didn’t hear her right away, it was so loud downstairs. I was asleep.” I couldn’t seem to stop talking.
    A distracted nod. The room had filled with people, slaves bearing torches and rubbing at their tired eyes. The mass of their bodies muffled Hippothoe’s rattling wheeze. My eyes slipped from one face to another, eyes and mouths and noses I knew, all a blur. Maids and slaves and stable boys, and none of them were doing anything to help Hippothoe.
    “Take her,” I cried. “You must take her to the hearth, she has to breathe.”
    There was a long, still moment. Then the head maid stepped back and wiped her hands on her shift. “Fetch the king,” she told one of the servants. “Take a guard with you. You, take her to the great hall. We’ll need the royal hearth. The rest of you, call on the lord Apollo at once. Carefully, there!”
    The chant began slowly around us, the same words the head maid and I always said. O, Apollo, golden healer—
    A slave pulled Hippothoe off Pisidice’s lap, away from my clutching hands. Hippothoe’s mouth hung open and I wished I could reach down her throat to pull out whatever was blocking her breath. Her lips had paled, and when the slave slung her into his arms she gasped and her eyelids fluttered. I grabbed at her wrist.
    “Wake up,” I called. “Hippothoe, you have to wake up.”
    The head maid pried my fingers away. “Let go, child,” she said softly. “You can follow them down right after. Best you pray to the god your uncle.”
    I stared at the woman, uncomprehending. The slave carried Hippothoe out of the room.
    “Come on,” Pisidice hissed, seizing my wrist and yanking me off the bed. I landed hard on my heels and let her pull me into a run. We raced through the women’s quarters toward the stairs, the slave ahead of us, Hippothoe’s feet dangling over his arm as he walked. He went past the kitchens, past the drinking room, heading for the great hall as the maid had instructed.
    “He’s not going to the kitchens,” I said, panting and desperate. “He’s taking her to the royal hearth. Why is he doing that? Pisidice? Are you praying?”
    Pisidice didn’t answer.
    “He has to take her there, like the other times! Boil the water, and—and the garlic—”
    Pisidice spun to face me, grabbing at my shoulders hard and pushing me back against the wall. The rest of the servants passed us by in a rush, faces carefully averted as they chanted. I turned my head to watch them, and Pisidice shook me until my teeth clashed together. I smothered a cry. “This is not like the other times,” Pisidice said, her fingers biting into my skin. She bent close. Her hair had come loose from its braid and it swayed in a mass over her shoulders. “It won’t work. It won’t fix her.”
    I stilled, staring into her stony eyes. “Why not?”
    “Because it’s her time to die,” Pisidice said, “like it was Mother’s time, when you came, and so they couldn’t save her then either. Her thread’s been cut, Alcestis. The water won’t help.”
    “How do you know?” I pushed Pisidice away.