The air was thick with steam and mist, except for a clear, bright, silver path that wound from the girl’s upturned mouth. Chara drew closer—past the palanquin that was still flanked by priests and priestesses—and heard what was making the path: singing, godmarked and pure. Her own voice in the darkness, the night before, had been nothing. She picked her way around the other Athenians and stood above the red-haired girl. Her voice spun a coil of silver around Chara. She felt it against her skin, beneath it, tugging like longing or loss. The melody stopped. “Who are you?” said the girl in her mortal voice, which was thin and trembling. Chara shook her head to clear it of godmarked mist. “I’m . . .” The girl rolled her head. She was looking up, though Chara couldn’t see eyes: just two blank, dark holes in the bull mask. “I’m Chara. Your godmark is beautiful.
