Falling in love wasn't on Annabeth's list of priorities for today. In fact, it wasn't on her list of life plans either. As a priestess to Aphrodite, she was supposed to devote herself entirely to the goddess — not to any man or woman. Of course, love didn't care what plans Annabeth — or any mortal — had.

    "Are you ready for the festival?" Helen asked her step-daughter.

    Annabeth's mother had succumbed to a childbirth infection. When his grief cooled down, Frederick remarried, taking a woman named Helen as his wife. She had borne him twin sons: Matthew and Bobby. Annabeth felt like she'd been pushed aside in favor of her brothers. She had an inkling her father had made her a priestess so he wouldn't have to pay her dowry or deal with potential suitors.

    At least being a priestess allowed her more freedom. She wasn't bossed around by any man besides her father and she lived a fairly comfortable life, moving from her father's house to the lighthouse she tended as one of her duties. "I'm ready," Annabeth confirmed.

   Her curly blonde hair had been tied and pinned into an elaborate updo and she was wearing a blue chiton and matching peplos that fell to her ankles, only showing the tops of her leather sandals. Annabeth had lined her gray eyes with kohl and added a pinch of color to her cheeks. She was tall — taller than even her father who was a local war hero. He'd helped fight and repel Argive invaders in his youth.

      As part of the generation who grew up in the shadow of the Trojan War, he was fascinated by it, but while most people focused on the heroes, he cared about the military tactics. There were far too many afternoons he'd spent recreating battles from the war and saying the outcome might've been different if not for some factor or two.

      Bobby and Matthew, seven years Annabeth's junior, were scampering around the house. At twelve, they were noisy boys who preferred playing with their wooden horses and throwing a discus to strumming the lyre. Annabeth hid her scowl: at their age she'd been relegated to weaving for fun or if she was lucky, reading. She's never been given the opportunity to run wild.

    At least she could read, which was more than most women — and many men — in Sestos could say. Her father was a tutor and he'd taught her as well as her brothers the basics of reading, writing, religion, and history. Helen had taught her to cook, clean, and weave, as well as other feminine things like how to tie a chiton or style her hair. Annabeth liked to imagine that if her life were different, she'd be like Andromache before the Trojan War: a well-respected woman whose husband listened to her wise advice. As it was, Annabeth felt more like Cassandra, saying true things that no one really believed.

    Frederick came into the room, looking more put-together than usual. The fabric of his tunic was smooth and his blonde hair wasn't rumpled as it usually was, but freshly combed and oiled. "Are my sons ready?" he called.

    "Yes!" Matthew and Bobby shouted in unison, tearing into the room.

    Matthew was jumping up and down. "Can I slaughter the bull today?" he asked.

    "No, I want to!" Bobby said, tugging at his father's tunic.

    Frederick sighed. "Now children, the priest to Apollo will be carrying out the duty. If you want to do it someday, you'll have to become a priest first, and you're not old enough."

     Both boys sighed dramatically. "It's not fair," Matthew complained.

    I'll never be old enough to do anything!" Bobby agreed.

   Helen and Frederick just exchanged small smiles. "Come on," Frederick said. "We're all going to be part of the procession."

    The boys perked up at this and they were still in a good mood as they left their house and headed to where the procession was to begin: a shady copse near the edge of town. People had gathered not just from Sestos, but from surrounding villages and even cities across the Hellespont for the festival to Apollo.

     The priest to Apollo was a man as tall and colorless as a sheaf of wheat. His name was Octavian and though he was only a few years older than Annabeth, his family connections had given him the coveted position as the head priest for the god. Annabeth supposed he was good at offering and reading the entrails of sacrifices, though, considering that he'd done the same to children's toys when he was younger.

    The people milled around the copse like ants on an anthill, exchanging gossip and catching up with each other. A festival meant fresh meat for people who could usually not afford it and a bit of respite from labor. People had freshly bathed and were dressed in their finest garments, so the overall atmosphere was light and joyous.

    The procession began when Octavian urged the bull forward, tugging slightly at the rope tied around its neck to lead it on. As the people organized themselves somewhat into columns, they raised their voices and sang hymns to Apollo. The procession wasn't speedy and no one tried to rush it. Annabeth found herself caught up in the awe of it all and sang her own praises to the far-shooting Apollo.

     That's when she spotted him. Annabeth wasn't allowed out often, as women were supposed to stay inside, but she'd seen enough people during festivals and visits to the agora or temple to know he wasn't from Sestos. He was even taller than her and lean, and though she could see strength in his figure, he didn't look like one of those men who spent all day in the gymnasia in the absence of work. His hair was black and his skin a burnished bronze. When he turned his head, Annabeth caught sight of his sea-green eyes. She stared for a second and then blinked and walked forward, thinking that nothing would come of this chance sighting of a stranger.