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that would set in motion so much strife and destruction.
    We turned, leaving them standing there, truly like stones, as a Gorgon would have turned them, and made our way through the streets, stunned as if under a spell.
    But it was I who was stumbling and under a spell. Zeus. They had called me the daughter of Zeus, said he had mated with Mother as a swan. The swan that attacked us—was he—could he be—my father ?
    The sunshine was still as bright, but all I could see was the white of the swan and his pitiless eyes, and the stares of the townspeople as they gaped at me and were paralyzed by looking at me. So that was what the veil was for, that was why I was guarded, and that was why Mother had hurried from the swans at the lake near my grandparents’, and that was why Father had thrown stones at them and called them filthy monsters. And that was why she called me Cygnet, little swan . . . Everything around me swirled, and I fell to the ground.

VI
    I knew nothing, until I awoke in Clytemnestra’s arms as she labored up the hill. She was gasping and panting as she clutched me against her; I was astonished by her strength and agility as she clambered over the rough path, climbing uphill all the while.
    “I—I—” I wanted her to stop, I wanted to ask her about all of it while we were still alone. No one was near; we must have left the pursuing villagers behind.
    “Don’t talk!” she said. The words were stern, but her voice was trembling.
    “But I have to! You have to tell me, everyone knows things about me but me, even the Spartans knew things—”
    She stopped and let me down. “It was foolish of Mother and Father not to tell you. They made us all promise not to tell you. As if you would not know someday. All of it—the veil, the mirrors, the imprisonment! How stupid of them!”

    The gates of the palace loomed ahead; they were closed as always, but Clytemnestra cried, “Open! Open in the name of mercy!” and the doors swung wide. Just inside, she dropped me down and turned around to aid the guards in pushing the doors shut and bolting them. No one seemed to be behind us, but we could not be sure.
    We thought we were safe, and Clytemnestra was just whispering to me to go directly back to my chamber before we could be caught, when suddenly Father strode from beneath the portico. He looked around, frowning, and saw us just as the gates groaned shut. In an instant he was beside us, jerking Clytemnestra’s arm.
    “You’ll be punished for this!” he said. “Severely punished. You have disobeyed my orders. You”—he stuck his face up into Clytemnestra’s, and in that instant it struck me how alike they were—“are old enough to know better, and so you shall suffer the worst punishment. You”—he swung around at me—“could have been injured. You risked yourself, and put us in danger.”
    “The only thing in danger is your bargaining rights with Helen, had she been physically damaged in some way,” snarled Clytemnestra.
    Father drew back his hand and struck her across the cheek, but she did not budge, only narrowed her eyes. “To your quarters, to await my punishment!” he ordered her.
    Surprisingly, she obeyed, leaving me with Father. He kept staring at me and I realized that Clytemnestra had spoken the truth: he was inspecting his wares for damage. Satisfied there was none, he relaxed and released me. “You also, to your quarters.” He put his hand firmly on my back to steer me.
    Just then Mother emerged from her chambers and saw us. We stood and waited for her as she rushed toward us, her gown fluttering. Her face was a mask of worry. She grabbed my shoulders and began sobbing.
    “Control yourself, Leda, she is safe,” Father said abruptly.
    “Oh, where did you go, and what did you do?” she asked.
    I must be properly contrite. “Oh, Mother, I am sorry. It was not Clytemnestra’s fault. The wrong was mine. I persuaded her to take me from the palace, I wanted to see Sparta. We went into