I remembered the day the bandits slaughtered my village. He had looked at my skirt, soaked through with blood, and wept until he could barely breathe.
He had sworn to me, voice shaking with conviction: "Penelope, I promise you, I won't let the villagers die in vain. And I won't let our child's sacrifice be for nothing."
He kept his word. Within three days, he tracked down the bandits' hideout and killed every last one of them.
For years, I had been overwhelmed with gratitude toward him. It never once crossed my mind that all of it, every single piece, had been his doing from the start.
Nora's voice came from outside the door. "My lady, your meal is ready."
"Leave it. I'm not hungry."
The food laced with abortifacient. I didn't dare touch it.
When the physician had last checked my pulse, he told me my body was weak, my womb cold and depleted. I needed to rest and take care of myself. If I miscarried again, I would never be able to bear children.
I wanted this child desperately. Before, it had been for Homer.
Now it was for the villagers who had died because of me.