Callisto doesn’t have that problem. Then again, Callisto is much more likely to stab someone with a salad fork—or shove them into traffic, apparently. The former is something she actually did at the party before last; it was the reason Mother relented and let her stay home recently. That reminds me… “How is Ares? I haven’t seen anything on MuseWatch about him.” Now that I think about it, I hadn’t seen him at the last party, either.
“I’m sure he’s fine. It was only a surface wound.” She flicks her hair off her shoulder. “If he hadn’t called Persephone a fickle w—” She curses. “I refuse to repeat it. If he hadn’t called our sister that, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“It’s only words, and Persephone could care less what anyone on this side of the river thinks of her—family excluded, of course.”
“She doesn’t care, but I care.” Callisto examines her fingernails. “They might fight with words, but eventually they’ll figure out that I don’t stop there.”
“Insults and assault are two very different things.” Though, honestly, I don’t think Mother smoothed this one over the way she has with Callisto’s…missteps…in the past. If she had, we would have heard about it, but after the initial lecture, it never came up again.
“Are they?” She shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”
There’s no getting through to Callisto. She might consent to attending the endless parties Mother is dragging us to, but she’ll never play the game. I still haven’t quite figured out how she’s pulled that off, but it’s something I can’t replicate. “If I go try on a few dresses, will you behave yourself?”
She shrugs a single shoulder. “There’s no one in here that pisses me off, so odds are good.”
They’d only stay good for as long as that remained true. I straighten. “There’s this little thing called self-control. You should try it sometime. You might even like the results.”
My sister laughs. She might be just shy of vicious to everyone outside our little family unit, but she laughs like an angel—or a siren, more accurately. I catch the saleslady peering with interest in our direction and barely manage to resist rolling my eyes. “I’ll be quick.”
“Good idea.”
I grab the most promising options off the rack and head back into the changing rooms. They’re large enough for several people to fit in each one, which makes sense because so many of the upper crust of Olympia seem to dress themselves by committee. Maybe I would, too, if any of my sisters showed any interest in fashion. Callisto ignores it and Eurydice dresses in whatever is available. Persephone is the only one who used to enjoy it, just a little, but those shopping trips with her are in the past. She’s too busy running half the city with her husband now.
I don’t begrudge Persephone her happiness. I truly don’t. But I miss her. Her infrequent trips to this side of the River Styx are never enough, and Mother already has an issue with Eurydice visiting the lower city so often. If I started doing it as well, her head might actually explode. Especially now.
No, for better or worse, my options are limited.
I strip out of my dress and try on the first dress. As I suspected, it’s a terrible fit. It clings in places it’s not meant to cling and is baggy through places it shouldn’t be baggy. I sigh and peel the disappointing garment off.
“That’s godsawful. I expected better of Thalia.”
I freeze in the middle of hanging the dress up. I know that voice, but even as I tell myself it’s not possible, I look in the mirror and meet the gaze of Hermes. She’s a petite Black woman with natural hair who favors quirky wide-frame glasses and has the gift of mimicry. Today her glasses are bright red and she’s wearing purple glittering pants, an orange hoodie with the picture of a cat on the front of it, its eyes bugging out, and red Chucks. I suppose when you’re one of the Thirteen, you can do whatever you want and people just accept it. The benefit of power. Hermes, in particular, doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her. She appears to enjoy shocking people and challenging their expectations, which would be enough to make her interesting to me, but she’s one of the Thirteen, so I try to steer clear.
There’s no steering clear now.
I don’t try to cover myself, don’t blush, don’t react in any way that would tell her I’m nonplussed by this development. “Hello, Hermes.”
“Hi, Psyche.” She leans down and stares at my breasts. “Is that a Juliette bra? It’s exquisite. And I’m not just saying that because your tits are a ten.”
I strive for patience. I haven’t spent much time interacting with Hermes, but the few conversations we’ve had felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Persephone likes her, but Persephone has enough power now that she can associate with members of the Thirteen without worrying about being steamrolled. I’m not that lucky. There’s no good reason for Hermes to be here, but I hope against hope that it’s merely her curiosity that brought her around, rather than her official duties. “What can I help you with?”