Free The Golden Mean by Annabel Lyon Page A

the twins and their nurse a pair of sunny rooms overlooking the flower garden, me an alcove off the kitchen. He said I would thank him in winter for letting me sleep so close to the hearth. My mother gave me a look to say we would find a place for my things and probably rig up a curtain for privacy; a lot for one look, but we had spent many years more or less alone together and often understood each other quicker than words. I was too excited about the prospect of exploring the city to be disappointed with the sleeping arrangements. For supper that evening we ate the last of our travelling food, dried this and that. The women would go to the market in the morning.
    I announced my intention to spend the day alone, walking. My father corrected me.
    “You boys will attend the king with me,” he said. “We’re expected.”
    “But,” I said.
    My father looked at me, full of sadness, took my plate, and sent me to my alcove, where I lay listening to the bustle of unpacking that lasted well into the night. I heard my father’s querulous voice submitting to my mother’s arrangements, and luxuriated in hating him for a few hours. My mother had that effect on him, rendering him feckless and feeble and needing to be led. His hands seemed to go slack from the wrists in her presence, so that he couldn’t even lift a book unless she’d brought it to him first. If she asked him for something, he would go stupid. Is this soap? he would say, bringing a vial of oil, and couldn’t suppress an animal grunt of pleasure when she brought the correct object herself. The twins and I agreed this behaviour was supremely irritating and ourselves relied on our mother for as little as possible, seizing our independence early. Poor woman. She was harmless, though fiercely organized, clean and tidy, and loved her little queendom. She wanted us all to be helpless without her, which only our father offered. We children preferred to be cruel.
    The next morning I woke early. I lay in my alcove for a while listening to the street-vendors who’d seen our newly arrived carts and paused just outside our gate— fresh bread, goat’s milk, best milk —then got up. My mother’s bronze, not yet hung in her room, leaned against a wall amidst the jumble of furniture and unpacked crates. Unused to seeing myself, I stopped to strike a few poses: one foot forward, hand on hip, chin high, higher. Was this a sophisticated city boy? Maybe this?
    My father’s shove propelled me into an iron sconce. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.
    At breakfast my mother took one look at me and gasped. The bleeding had stopped, but the eye was puffy and already bluing.
    “It’s nothing,” I said. “I tripped.”
    “Come, boys.” My father pushed his breakfast plate away.
    He hadn’t eaten; neither had I. From the way he had stared at his food without touching it, I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me.
    “Kiss your mother.”
    “And me,” Arimneste said. When I leaned close to her she whispered, “Take me out later. Mother will let me go, with you.”
    I didn’t answer.
    Arimnestus immediately ran ahead of us, happy and excited, sniffing at everything like a little hunting dog.
    “Nervous,” my father said to me, just the one word during our walk up to the palace. A statement, a question, an apology.
    I took his arm to steady myself as I searched for a nonexistent stone in my sandal. He looked at my foot, then discreetly away as I fingered out the little fiction.
    The king, Amyntas, smiled when he saw my father. It was like seeing a piece of granite smile. I saw that this particular movement of the face hurt him, saw the flare of pain in his eyes. I saw that almost every movement he made hurt him. He had been wounded all over his body at various times, and was suffering constantly now. My father knelt and began to unpack his kit.
    “And these are your sons,” Amyntas said.
    “My sons,” my father confirmed.
    “Trained, yes?” Amyntas said. “They’ll