Page 24 of Prometheus' Priestess

Tyche narrowed her hawk-like eyes, the same colour as her father’s, at him and looked momentarilyhurt.

“You think so little of our friendship?”

It had been Tyche that had appeared on his doorstep first, despite Zeus’ decree that he was to be shunned for two thousand years while the God of Gods decided on Prometheus’ punishment for presenting the humans with fire. Two thousand years was enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge. Of course, as mistress of good fortune, she had known the time when it would be favourable to visit. And as mistress of ill fortune, she was used to being accused and blamed for things the humans could find no logic for. On paper, the two were unlikely friends. Tyche seemed impulsive and unpredictable, Prometheus logical and persevering, but they had found similarities in their rebellious, risk-taking natures ... and their absolute defiance to apologise for their stances. This, however, was not one of those occasions. Tyche was slowly teaching him the value of loyalty over logic.

“I ... apologise.” The words came out like sandpaper in histhroat.

“By Zeus, you really don’t like to admit when you are wrong do you?” Then Tyche laughed, for she was not one to hold a grudge. Instead, she spun the chessboard around so that Prometheus faced the black. He scowled again but this time it held a playful edge.

“Really? You get toopen?”

“Really? You think getting involved with the humans again is wise?” Tyche countered as she made her opening move.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he eventually answered. “Amara, the priestess, she ... deserves support in hertask.”

Tyche paused, momentarily stunned. In all the time they had known each other, she had always known her friend to be impartial unless his foresight was in play.

“What do you know?” sheasked.

“Nothing, it’s ... foggy,” he growled, running a hand through the curls on his head in frustration before making a countermove. Tyche immediately responded in kind. A grunt was her only response as he kept his eyes on the board and she watched his facial expression inturn.

“Rusty from misuse, arewe?”

“Something likethat.”

A comfortable silence broke out between the pair as they continued to play, making moves and countermoves until Prometheus was quietly confident he could win.

“Perhaps you are overdue a visit to the human realm,” Tyche commented lightly as she moved her queen into check. Prometheus looked at her warily as he slowly moved his King into a more fortunate position.

“Tomorrow when the sun is at the highest point, you’ll be able to leave unseen,” she continued, moving a rook into a square that seemed to serve no purpose. “There’s an exhibition in Edinburgh on the constellations I think you’d particularly enjoy.”

“Why’s that?” He grumbled.

“Because you should have been able to spot what I was doing six moves ago,” she said as she moved her final piece into position and a checkmate was written between the pieces left on the board. “You are clearly troubled by this plight, and a troubled god − a Titan no less − is a dangerous one.”

CHAPTER XII

By Wednesday the following week, Amara was retracing her footsteps once again, re-walking streets she’d already been down. Then she stumbled upon a conversation that gave her the unknowing answer as to why she was still doggedlyhere.

The tour guide looked to be in his forties or perhaps fifties; it was hard to tell with his silver hair and the side profile of his long, gaunt face. He wore an absurdly bright blue jacket and talked animatedly into a small lapel microphone, his hand holding up his collar. It was clear to see he was a spritely man, striding along chatting away to the two sets of couples following him, their hands crushed to their ears as they tried desperately to hear him over the roaring wind. Why anyone would go on a walking tour when winter had barely begun to thaw? Amara had no answer. Then again, here she was wandering the streets, so who was she tojudge?

One couple, the larger pair, had stopped to take photos while the tour guide carried on walking in large strides. Amara caught a whiff of an American accent as the woman demanded her partner take more flattering shots of her against the backdrop of a large block of a building. The simplicity of the tan structure only further made its prominence and prestige more apparent. The simplicity of the woman, not so much. Wearing a bright pink leather jacket, leggings that looked like faded leopard print turned camouflage, and fur boots, the woman appeared to have stepped out of some Paris fashion show that had gone disastrously wrong in the high-street chain stores. Her partner was much more casual in jeans and a blue and white puffer jacket with a red stripe across the chest. Amara noted he wasn’t being asked to pose in any of the photos.

She couldn’t make much out of the other couple with the tour guide, their backs turned towards her. All she could see was a short, blonde woman with a tall, lean man clearly chatting to each other, obviously not all that interested in what the tour guide was saying. Amara was.

“Yes, that right over there is the National Library of Scotland. One of the largest research libraries in Europe! It houses every book published in the United Kingdom and keeps a copy of all printed materials too, from research papers to newspaper articles to birthannouncements.”

Birth announcements.It was a long shot. Amara had been left on a Parisian parish church doorstep, after all. But the visceral feeling in her gut lurched forward at the unexpected words and pulled at her until she found herself walking towards the building the tour guide had pointed out to his companions.

The inside was surprisingly modern given the exterior impression. Amara wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, perhaps more like the train station, but this seemed like any other reception hall she’d come across in the museums, libraries, and other such places in Paris.

Approaching the desk with no one ahead of her in the queue, she was greeted by a tall male with spectacles who looked awfully familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him. His dark hair was long enough to flop just over his forehead and his green eyes were watery enough that they calmed her. His face was also rather gaunt, his body lost underneath the baggy grey jumper he wore, and the white shirt underneath left plenty of room for his neck to breathe. He felt … unintrusive. Perhaps that was why he was the first person she’d felt comfortable enough to talk to sincethe incident. Perhaps it was because he felt familiar and she couldn’t quite place why, but she instinctively felt like he was not going to harmher.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to look for ... ah ... newspaper clippings and birth announcements from around twenty-five yearsago?”

“Do you have one of our librarycards?”

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