‘I was not aware that I was supposed to be your entertainment.’ I lift my chin, in defiance of her contempt and my own and speak with the voice of my mother. ‘I will be your queen.’
‘Will you, indeed? Well. We shall see. Though I’d advise you not to scrunch your face like that. Denying you and granting my sister her rightful crown will be all too easy if you perpetually look as though you are inhaling shit.’
I thrill again at her coarse language, my eyes widening, and she scoffs heartily. ‘Gods! Can your sensitive ears not withstand a little profanity, princess? I shall pray to Artemis to speed along your bleeding, so that I might return to my own affairs.’
I realize the thrilling thing is hatred, an altogether new kind of hatred for me. It is not the hatred I feel for my father, tinged with a forced kind of love. It is not the hatred I feel for his drunk, leering friends, the ones who have no history of attempting to hurt me but are too reminiscent of that nauseating night all the same. No, this is closer to the way I feel when the nobles’ daughters whisper about me behind their hands. It is a hatred born out of understanding; I can see that if I were one of them, I might whisper and mock too, might keep my distance.Thishatred is wholehearted and blazing and outweighs the fear. It strengthens me. My pincers return.
‘Really? The sea god made it quite clear you have nothing more interesting to do. Embarrassing really. The only one of your kind, and yet still surplus.’
Her fists clench. I wonder wildly if I could antagonize her into striking me or if she is forbidden from doing so by the oath that binds her to her master. I see her breathe deeply. I am giddy with our mutual dislike. It is freeing, this loathing. I do not have to smile and say pretty things. I may scowl! I may be creative in my harsh words! She may throw barbs back and yet she can do no more than this. Something lightens my chest, though my heart beats as if I am dancing.
‘My Lord Poseidon says I am to meet you each morning on these banks and watch you until you retreat to bed.’ She grinds it out through gritted teeth. ‘He says we are to take ourmeals together and I am to be there in all your lessons. I am to let him know when you bleed.’
I consider her words and relish my sardonic tone. ‘Oh? You are not to watch me when I sleep? I’d have thought your master would not want me out of your sight lest I usepharmaka.’ I say it derisively. Whatever Amphitrite and the Nereids might believe, I have never known my grandmother to truck with spells and potions. It is not her way at all. I would not put it past my mother but she is, of course, mortal.
The Cetus hesitates, weighing her words. ‘I do not think my lord believes you would be so stupid as to deceive him. Or that you would attempt to break the oath.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘It is a kind of assertion, a reiteration. He wants your family to know that he is always watching. That they may have the protection of a couple of small freshwater gods, but as all rivers return to the sea, so must you all turn to him.’
‘Did he tell you to say that?’
‘Yes.’
I consider her a moment. She reciprocates. I feel my face twisted similarly to hers, intense in dislike. Abruptly, I turn on my heel, striding for the avenue. ‘Come, then. My parents should know of your master’s plans.’
I do not look to see if she is following, though I know she is. I can feel her behind me as prey is aware of a predator. She meets my steps as we reach the oranges and I observe her from the corner of my eye. She sidesteps the shadow and I am forcibly reminded of my mother in the way she seems to bask in the warmth and proximity of the sun. Even this close I cannot discern her pupils, the heavy dark of her eyes alighting on the alabaster shapes of my ancestors. She does notsay anything. Does she know these stories too? They are hers as much as they are mine, more perhaps. Her limbs are fluid in their movement, a flowing liquid gold; we are similarly descended but we are sand and stardust. How dare she come here, to my palace, and lord her feral glory over me, a princess of silt? I stalk through the halls, yet she keeps pace easily. This angers me too. How dare she, a water creature, be so quick and graceful on land? She trails a toe through the pool in the central court and the fish, my friends, traitors that they are, flock towards her brief submersion. She does this swiftly, barely falling behind me, and I work to straighten my scowl before we reach my mother. I could not bear to be chastised for lining my forehead in front of my hostile new companion.
We reach the throne room. My parents are not surprised by my arrival and I feel somewhat foolish. As though it was anticipated that I would immediately come running, seeking the comfort of my mother’s skirts.Be a little queen.
‘Mama. Father. I have brought the Nereid, the Cetus, to speak with you. She brings word from her master, my future husband, Lord Poseidon.’
Yes. My future husband. Remember it, nymph. One day, you will bow to me.
‘Speak, nymph, and be welcome.’ My father is congenial. He sees her as the key to a treasure trove.
‘It is Ceto, not Cetus. Cetus is what some call my other shape.’
‘You are one and the same, no? Surely the name matters little.’ My mother is dismissive. She knows the nymph cannot lie, so she does not need to bother with kindness.
‘You are Cassiopeia and Queen and Mother. Surely itmatters which title is used when and by whom? I come before you in legs and hair, I am Ceto.’
My mother replies in looks alone, running her eyes over Ceto’s form, taking in those muscled legs, that thickly waving hair. I see the judgement wrinkle her nose. Legs hardened by activity are considered masculine by my mother – they would intimidate a man, they are unappealing. The unbound hair, unbraided and unadorned, tangled probably, unkempt,uncared for. My mother reads arrogance here, a lack of modesty. This creature does not deign to impress, feels she does not need to be perceived. She believes that she can exist as she is and my mother scorns her for it. I covet the defiance but choose my mother’s scorn instead – it is safer. We raise our eyebrows at each other in silent condemnation and I welcome the bond of our conference.
‘What word from your lord and master, my future son?’ my father asks with the air of a man centring himself, becoming comfortable once more.
She tells him what she told me. My parents exchange a glance. My father shrugs. My mother nods.
‘Very well, nymph. You may accompany our daughter about her daily tasks. Do not hold up her progress. And each night, when you return to the sea god, be sure to tell him of how we have welcomed you, how we have not got in your way. She is ourlittle queen; we do not intend to break our oath. You may also relay how finely she plays the harp, how well she sews and how beautifully she speaks literature. She will reward you, I’m sure, when she is your queen.’
They nod, a unified dismissal. They are together in something, for once. They are enjoying it, I can tell. My fatherkisses my mother on her cheek. I am, momentarily, happy for them.
I turn and the nymph follows me once more. I return to my apartments and she follows me there also. This is strange to me. No one ever comes into my apartments, save the servants. My mother’s women draw back and away from us. The ones who would usually fuss and hover press fingers to their mouths and say nothing, eyes round with hope and worry.
This is how we proceed throughout most of the day. Everywhere I turn, there she is, leaking contempt like the dark oil of her hair, spilling from her as from a golden ewer. The sons and daughters of nobles and advisors peer at us from behind columns, endlessly curious and yet fearful to get too close. I would not mind so much, if she was silent and unobtrusive. Certainly, she is not talkative. But she is a scathing ghost, capable of belittling with the merest tilt of her chin or purse of her lips. I stumble over poetry and fumble my harp strings. She snorts and I resolve to make no more errors, to not allow her to unnerve me, but the resolve itself shakes me; I have never needed resolve before. I have spoken the words and they have come forth, I have reached for the strings and my fingers have never erred. Today is different. I must become accustomed to an unfriendly audience.
She does not speak again until after lunch. She watches from the corner of my apartments while I eat and then follows me outside, turning her head westward, marking the beginning of the sun’s descent.
