Ithaca (The Songs of Penelope, #1)

by Claire North

Listen to my voice: I who have been stripped of honour, of power and of that fire that should be mine, I who have nothing to lose that the poets have not already taken from me, only I will tell you the truth. I, who part the veil of time, will tell those stories that only the women tell.

Beauty is a whim, it changes as easily as the tide. I was once considered the most beautiful, until familiarity bred tedium.

The lives of mortals are a flicker of sparks, but now let us pause and catch at one, see how it may burn away to ash. See how time unravels from this moment, a future possibility waiting to be born.

Let us consider a boy who is most definitely not a man.

Story of my life