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The undyed threads hang before her, arranged perfectly, and Electra combs them with the pointy edge of the bobbin. Left to right, right to left, she weaves in the blue of the sea, the brown of the wooden ships, the red of the sails. Her father’s warships, victorious, sailing home from Troy. Since she isn’t free to say her prayers aloud anymore, she weaves them.
Through the loose hanging warp she sees her mother approaching slowly, maneuvering her swollen belly with one hand, dragging the little girl with the other. She’s made quite an effort to come all the way up here - her face is red and her breath short, but Electra spares no sympathy for her. The seer said it’s going to be a boy this time, and they’ll surely groom him to succeed his father as tyrant. With Orestes out of the way, it shouldn’t be too hard.
Mother stands across the room and clears her throat, tenderly placing her hands on the little girl’s shoulders.
“Electra, I’d like you to show Erigone how to work the loom.”
“I’m busy.”
“Yes, busy weaving. Erigone can help you.”
“This is my tapestry. I don’t want her to ruin it.”
“She’s not going to if you teach her properly.”
“I said no.”
“Iphigeneia used to teach you.”
“I’m sorry, mother. I can’t be Iphigeneia.”
“Certainly not, but you can still try.”
Iphigeneia, it’s always about Iphigeneia. After Aulis, mother withdrew to her chambers for months. She refused food, spent her nights weeping and attempted to hang herself with a bedsheet - despite the servants’ efforts to hide it, they all heard the thump from their rooms. Mourning one dead child, she forgot about the three living. She wouldn’t even breastfeed Orestes, handing him to a nurse instead, just like she handed him to Strophius and shipped him to Phocis a few years later. Her grief had faded by then, of course, enamoured as she was with her Aegisthus, and he gave her a new plaything: this little girl with the wide blue eyes and the precocious smile that Electra loathes.
“What if it had been you?”
She looks up from the tapestry; a shadow covers her mother’s face, a remnant of those first few months without Iphigeneia. “Me?”
“What if the seer had said that king Agamemnon had to sacrifice his second-born; you. What would you have done then?”
“I would have gone willingly. I would have done anything to help my father.”
“Would you really?”
“Of course!”
Mother crosses her arms, incredulous. “Well, I would have mourned you just the same. I would have hated him just as much. And, had I been presented with the chance to avenge you, I would have jumped at it.”
They stay silent for a few moments and Electra resumes her weaving, trying to keep her hands steady. Erigone looks up at her too now and mother gently pushes her forward.
“This is not a negotiation. You’re going to teach your sister how to weave.”
“She’s not my sister - she’s a bastard, just like the one you’re carrying.”
Mother’s face twitches only very slightly as she tightens her embrace around Erigone. “Take that back,” she orders, her voice low but stern.
“Or what? You’ll send that coward to reprimand me?”
She brings her fingers to the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. “I’m going to lie down,” she says, resigning from the argument. “Erigone will stay here with you and learn to work the loom. Not another word, Electra,” she stops her before she has time to protest and she turns around, leaving Erigone behind.
The girl takes a few steps forward. “I’m sorry, Electra. I didn’t even want to, but mother said-”
“It’s fine.” Electra motions at the stool beside her and Erigone sits. “You look like her, you know.”
“Who?”
“Iphigeneia. Chrysothemis and Orestes and I, we take after our father: his dark hair and his features. But you have mother’s golden locks and her eyes - just like she did.”
“Do you miss her?”
Electra turns to the loom again with a sigh. “I miss the way things used to be.”
“Were you jealous of her?”
Her hands hover above the threads for a moment. “Maybe a little.”
“Are you jealous of me ? Is that why you called me a bastard?”
“Well, you fit the definition.”
Erigone places her small hand on Electra’s. “I know you don’t like me, but I still want to be friends.”
“Friends?”
“I don’t have any, you know. Chrysothemis and Hermione won’t play with me - they say their games are only meant for two.”
“You’ll play with the new baby, when it’s born.”
“But I can’t wait that long! Please, Electra, will you be my friend?”
The child’s big blue eyes gaze at her imploringly, glistening with unshed tears. Is she really going to make a little girl cry? Will it satisfy her? Will it bring back her father, will it undo all the pain she’s had to endure?
She rolls her eyes, defeated. “I’ll show you how the loom works,” she says. “See this? It’s called a bobbin. You wrap the thread around it and you use the pointy edge to weave it in.”
“Can I try it?”
Still slightly unsure, she hands her the tool. Erigone grabs it tightly and Electra takes the small hand in her own, guiding it. The girl smiles at her as they fill in the colours together, she claps with excitement when they finish the trireme, and all of a sudden Electra’s hot anger feels milder, her pain just a little more bearable.