Page 94 of We Are the Match
But it sits heavy on my chest all the same: the knowledge that any chance we had of leaving quietly has evaporated before me—even without this, Zarek would have come for her. And now? What hope do we have of ever leaving this behind?
And still—I will take what slim chance we have.
“Are you ready, Helen?” I ask her. “To leave all this behind?”
“As soon as Erin joins us.” Helen turns her head.
Behind her, a woman wearing a maid’s uniform descends, and I startle again. Because behind a blood-drenched Helen is—
Eris.
My Eris.
Her honey-brown hair was almost black when I knew her, her voice loud instead of measured, but I—Iknewher.
“Paris,” she says softly.
“Er . . . Erin?” I ask.
And how was it she ended up at Helen’s side, when every girl from Troy ended up in Lena’s employ, not Zarek’s?
“I should pay Marcus a visit,” Helen says, interrupting my confusion at Eris’s introduction. “Like his brother, he is guilty.”
She is fearsome now, eerily similar to her father in her mannerisms. Would this Helen burn down a home full of sisters just to be free? Is it a different thing, to kill for freedom and not power?
I do not know, I do notknow, but I stretch out my hand toward her, offering help to board the boat.
Helen takes neither of our offered hands. Instead, she reaches down and dips her hands in the cold water of the cave, scrubbing at the blood. It unspools under the water, red leaching from her fingertips.
“Erin,” she says, her tone betraying no hint of whatever emotions must be raging inside her like the storm that raged the night we met. “Did you retrieve my kit?”
Eris—no, Erin now—holds up a small bag in response.
Helen continues scrubbing, the silence long, unbroken except for by the sound of the water. When she is finally satisfied, her hands are shaking. She stares at the knife she carried, and when she looks up at me there are tears in her eyes.
“I would do it again,” she says fiercely. “I will be free, or I will be nothing.”
I take her shaking hands and help her into the boat.
And then there is nothing more to say.
Helen of the gods.
Helen of the island.
Helen, who started a war, who bled a king dry for touching her.
Helen, who killed her husband to run away with me.
My Helen.
Zarek will shut down the harbors as soon as Milos’s body is found and it is clear that we have fled—the airport on this island, too, so Troy is our only chance at securing a bigger boat or plane, something that can carry us to mainland Greece and beyond.
It strikes me that I do not know what Lena would do if she learns Helen has run away—if she no longer cares for the daughter she left, or if she had plans for Helen’s future like Zarek always has.
“Helen,” I say, reaching for her hand as Erin charts a course to the marina on Troy.
Helen jumps at the touch. “Stop,” she says, just as suddenly, her voice hard and commanding—the queen, again. “We need to make a stop.”
