Alcestis Read Online Free Page A

“Only the gods know when she’ll die. You’re not a god, you don’t know!”
    “I know,” Pisidice said. Each word had a hard punch to it, and I flinched away from her. Pisidice shook her head and reached out. “She’s dying. Come on.”
    We ran again, shoving through the people clustered in the doorway to the great hall. I shook off Pisidice’s hand and pushed up close to Hippothoe, hoping to see my sister’s chest lift and fall, to see red in her cheeks, to feel her grasp my fingers. My hand fell on Hippothoe’s shoulder: her skin warmed my hand, but she did not move. Her face was lax, her eyelids low. She looked like one in a dream. I thought: so the attack has ended; she’s fallen asleep. But I leaned in, and I saw that her chest was not rising—there was no cough, no rough wheeze, no breath— but I could not believe it. I bent down and laid my head against her still chest. The world was hushed, the slaves had gone quiet around us, but hard as I listened, I could not hear the rattle of her breath. I would never hear it again.
    “No,” I whispered, her shift soft on my lips. “You can’t go, Hippothoe. Come back. You have to come back.” I pulled back to look at her face again, and now I noticed the blue tinge in her cheeks. Her feathery hair still lay damp with drying sweat. I stroked it, like petting an animal’s fur. I could not think.
    A hand fell heavily on my shoulder. I looked up and saw my father, or a ghost of him, staring down at Hippothoe. Death was in his face. I recognized it.
    My mouth came open, and I seized Hippothoe’s cool hand, twined my fingers around hers—I would keep her with me, refuse to let her go—and stared out defiantly at my father and his guests. They stood behind Pelias, insubstantial in the low light, women with white faces and men with dark pools for eyes, their forgotten cups dripping wine on the palace floor. I saw a hint of motion in the darkness behind them, something trailing quietly over the stone—the sound of cloth, the sound of something escaping, the hem of the god Hermes’ cloak dragging as he took my sister’s spirit away. I had not even seen him come to guide her; I had not even felt her go.
    “Move, girl,” the king said, voice soft as wind. In the flickering light cast by the torches, I saw his sea-god father in his eyes. My grip slackened, and Hippothoe’s hand fell to her side and lay open and unmoving, her fingers curled as if she were still holding mine. Pisidice pulled me back, hard enough to make me stumble.
    Pelias bent over Hippothoe’s body, her soft hair spilling in tangles over his arm as he lifted her. I could not see my father’s face, but the line of his godlike shoulders was heavy with sorrow. He stood for a long time with Hippothoe in his arms, his head bowed, and it was as if the entire room had stopped breathing when Hippothoe did. The servants, the children, the guests, the king: all of us silent and still in the great hall of the palace while the sheets of cloth hanging over the windows swayed in the dusty breeze.

    I WAS NOT allowed to help prepare my sister for burial. Pisidice wasn’t either, and I heard her shouting at the head maid the morning after Hippothoe died: Why not, why can’t I do it, he isn’t even here to see. He’ll find out, the maid murmured. Pisidice came stomping back into the room and threw herself onto the bed, knocking me in the arm with her elbow. There was too much space in the bed without Hippothoe and Pisidice seemed to want to fill it.
    “He always does this,” Pisidice said bitterly, her cheek jammed against the bed. “I hate it.”
    “Always does what?” I mumbled.
    “Goes away to kill beasts when he should be here.” She rolled over, away from me, her shoulder jutting up. “It’s my job to prepare her. I’m the oldest girl. I should do the rituals.”
    I didn’t know what to say. Pisidice let out a sudden puff of air, a sigh and a sob together. She was trembling, I could see it,