Daughters of Sparta

She could hear it now, that carefree, careless laughter of boys who know the world is theirs to waste.

Sometimes we must be led by duty, and sometimes by what is right....The trick is to know when these things are the same, and when they are not. [Tyndoreos]

He helped her to rule without ever trying to rule her.

None of this was Agatha's fault, Helen knew that in her honest heart. And yet she resented her. For doing what she could not, for being what she was not, for giving her daughter what she had not. Whenever Hermione smiled at the sight of the slave girl, and grasped toward her with her chubby little arms, Helen knew that really she hated herself. But it was easier to hate Agatha.

Agatha was very plain-looking, and she... well, she was Helen of Sparta.

And so here she was, a girl of barely fifteen, adrift in a sea of men.

She was touched by his concern, knew he was trying to be there for her, but she just couldn’t face him right now. It was too soon.

But you must strike while the bronze is hot, while the suitors are still so enraptured by the idea of Helen that they have fooled themselves into thinking they have a chance.

Halfway down it she could see a slither of light on the floor of the otherwise gloomy passage, leaking from beneath the door of her parents’ chamber.