Page 41 of Prometheus' Priestess

“Leave her be. Can’t you see the girl is busy?” Bessie, Amara’s favourite, swiped at her friend as she settled into her chair. Her little dog, Bertie, a black-haired Scottish terrier, was the spitting image of his owner. Amara bent down to give Bessie a kiss on either cheek and then bent further still to give Bertie a rub on his tummy.

“I like your skirt today, Bessie. Where did you get that tartan from?” Amara asked, eyeing up the pattern that looked so similar to the one that had been haunting Amara all herlife.

“Oh this old thing? I’ve had this for years! Why? Would you like me to make you one? I can, youknow!”

“Oh no. It’s just that I have a scarf just like it,” Amara said, gently touching Bessie’s arm. “I was actually looking for a tartan shop that could explain the lineage of it to me. But I haven’t been able to find a store that sells the particular pattern I have.”

“Oh well why don’t you bring it to us next time we’re in and we can see if we know it. We’ve been here long enough − we’re practically historians!” Bessie joked.

Amara stared at her, wide eyed and hopeful once again. “I have it out back. I’ll go and grab it after I place your order. The usual for youthree?”

“Please. Then, after we’ve determined where your tartan is from, you can tell us why we still haven’t seen anyone come and snap you up from this place. It’s been months!” Rhonda said.

Rhonda was a firm believer, as she had told Amara many times before, that while there were times a woman should work in her life, it was to be a ‘shelf-life experience’. And Amara was fast approaching the end of that shelf.

“You don’t have to marry them for love, dear. Take it from me, marry for money the first time. Marry for love the second. It makes it all much easier. You can’t keep working here forever. You’ll get calloused hands. Women should be cherished not calloused in their lifetime.”

Rhonda’s own hands were adorned with two sets of diamond engagement rings on her divorced finger and one remaining set on her ring finger, though she was now widowed. Her late husband had been the only one she’d truly loved, she’d happily told Amara who took the advice with good humour and went about setting their teas and sweet treats and a bowl of water for Bertie. When she returned to the table with her scarf, Bessie and Rhonda eyed the pattern.

“Hmm, no I don’t think I’ve seen this pattern before.” Bessie said. “Haveyou?”

“No,” Rhonda replied. “Where did you say you got it from

again, dear?”

“I was wrapped in it as a baby,” Amara said, a lump in her throat and hope beginning to free fall in her stomach.

“Hmm, we’ll have to ask the others in our Bible study group. Here, you hold onto it for now, love.” Bessie patted her arm.

At Amara’s crestfallen look, the kind old woman spoke again.

“We are worried about you, dear. You do seem to always behere.”

“Well, so are you.” Amara jested kindly, trying to brush off the disappointment that had crashed into her.

“Yes, but we’ve lived our lives. What life is this for a young woman? We didn’t burn our bras in the seventies, you know, for you to continue living a life of service to others,” Bessie admonished gently.

“I’m happy here,” Amara reassured her. And despite the turmoil and drama, it was true. Amarawashappy there. Sure, answers still whispered out of reach and she missed Theo so badly it hurt, but she was otherwise content.Wasn’t that good enough?

At the end of the long day, as Alice was out the back, loading the carrier trays into Graham’s car for the fresh-baked goods and Amara was mopping the floor behind the counter, the door chimed open.

“Sorry we’re—”

Amara’s tongue went numb as she looked up. Her heart thudded wildly, threatening to take her to the floor with it. She held onto the mop like her life depended on it right then, her grip on the wooden handle tightening until the veins on the back of her hands popped, like dark blue rivers about to burst through the dams of her knuckles. Leaning on the mop was the only thing that grounded her, that stopped her from collapsing in relief or running to him in gratitude. No, that she would not do.

Because there, in the doorway, stood Theo, with knowledge behind his eyes that said he knew he’d hurt her.

CHAPTER XX

Athena was not used to failure. But every single one of the gods and goddesses had returned from the human realm with callously cruel grins on their faces and patted each other on the back for jobs well done, unaware of the true nature of their mission. She had smiled in appeasement at them − for her instruction to them had been to cause havoc in Amara’s life in the hopes the priestess would alchemise each challenge − while inwardly seething.

Aphrodite, it appeared, had been right. Willing to put her pride aside for now if it would ensure her victory − and the survival of the humans − Athena decided it was time to end this little feud. Which was why she was currently on her way to her sister’s gardens on the northern side of Mount Olympus.

Eventually reaching the cream-coloured pillars that were topped with swans carved in marble and laced with myrtle flowers, and which announced the beginning of Aphrodite’s land, Athena stepped into Aphrodite’s territory. Immediately she was greeted by Dike, who, as the spirit of justice, often gave measured advice in Athena’s counsel too. Why she chose to spend so much time with Aphrodite made Athena shake her head in despair. Dike would never understand that she would always be a justification, a reason, an excuse for both herself and Aphrodite as well as the humans. She would never hold her own. Justice by itself was never cause enough for the humans to act. There was always something she had to be paired with. Most often Dike chose to align herselfwith Aphrodite and so justice was almost always sought for the love ofsomething.

“Lady Athena.” She bowed demurely. “Have you come for LadyAphrodite?”

It wasn’t a foolish question for Aphrodite was often in the company ofmany.

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