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    Summary

    The Bath Chambers were aglow with the gentle flicker of braziers, their low amber light casting soft-moving shadows along the stone walls, which here were dressed with polished woods, dark with age and fragrant with oil. The flickering glow played across the ripples of steam rising from the waters, gilding the mist in molten gold. Every breath was full of warmth and the rich, sweet scent of blossoms – water lilies, thyme, creamy roses – their petals drifting lazily on the surface of the water like offerings to some forgotten goddess.

    Or the goddess-like being floating in their waters.

    Helen tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes for a moment, letting the scented heat sink into her skin, her hair damp and curling at her nape like threads of a pale cloud. Somewhere outside, Uncle Icarius’ palace stirred with preparations. The courtyards and feasting halls would soon fill with noble guests for the festival of Hera Gamēstόlos, though the true celebration would be for her.

    For Beloved Penelope.

    (or, Helen and Penelope spend an afternoon in the Baths together, as Helen bemoans Penelope's upcoming marriage.)

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