‘You will lose your kingdom. Be sent away as a sickly spinster.’
‘I should not mind that, I don’t think. Phineus will be better at ruling than I.’
‘I do not think so. Perhaps he will marry you still. Who will you be if you are not theirlittle queen?’
‘I will be your Meda.’
She is not looking at me, she cannot; what I am laying out before her is too much like direct sunlight. She is afraid of burning.
‘What about the prophecy?’
I repeat my grandmother’s words, and add, ‘Perhaps they have all been wrong.Andromeda, ruler of men.Andromeda.Deceiver of men.’
She trembles, still not looking at me, but I do not mind. She is not the Cetus here, she is not in the Coral Kingdom. She need not be strong for me.
‘Ceto. Look at me.’
She does as commanded. Her face is a breath from mine.
‘You will stay with me.’
‘What?’
‘You will stay with me.’
‘But—’
‘Most princesses have bedfellows, it would not be so unheard of. You will not go back to be misused by your sisters. You will tell your master that, given the delay, you think it best that you are with me always.’
Her eyes are heavy lidded, her face upturned.
‘You will stay with me.’ I reach for the dark waves of her hair. She leans into my touch, she is soft and open but only for me, and I am unyielding in my hunger. ‘Do you consent?’
‘Yes.’
I lean closer. My words brush her lips. ‘Good girl.’
I close my mouth over her sigh, swallowing it. I kiss her slowly, thoroughly; it is my first time and I am exploring. My teeth indulge in the succulent segment of her bottom lip, my tongue skims hers and she trembles. Her sigh ends with a delicious little moan. I want to hear it again. I want it louder, I want more: to learn how to play her, to pluck her strings, to make her sing for me. I am drunk on the taste of her,it will never be enough. She presses closer and closer still, my hands are in her hair, at her neck.I did not know it would be like this.I was never mine but now I am hers, all hers. She softly sucks on my tongue and I am dimly aware of something imploding.
12
Aethiopia
We tell my parents that Poseidon has ordered Ceto to guard me throughout the night. They do not argue, do not dare contradict. I see they are increasingly tense and worried. This was not how things were supposed to be. A mist of uncertainty rises from the ground. My mother calls for me less often. I am sure that she does not wish to be confronted by my face, a physical manifestation of her failed politicking. Either this or Ceto’s omnipresence unnerves her. I pass my twentieth birthday and I am a spinster already, the fine bounty Aphrodite bestowed upon our kingdom is wasted. I hear mutters of in it corners, the shadows whisper with speculation.What happens if this continues?They make signs to ward off bad luck as I pass, and I fight to stifle laughter. Various nobles bribe various servants to inspect my linens, to check my bedding. They are disappointed. Their suspicion of Ceto grows to outright fear. They mistrust her oaths and her orders, they say that she has turned my body from its natural course, they say that I am under her spell. They do not suspect me or that the spell is mine. Each full moon I send Ceto from the room and sip at the green jar. It is bitter and scratches my throat but I do not care. Occasionally Ceto leaves me in the early hoursof the morning to return to her master. I meet her at the banks with a basket full of warm bread, cheese and eggs and fruit. ‘It is all right?’
‘Yes,’ she says. She does not elaborate. Her eyes fade to the solemnity that I have come to connect with her sisters. I tease and kiss until they shine once more, until they again reach that volcanic heat, while quietly swearing that one day I will punish them all for her sudden pallor.
As my twenty-first birthday approaches the mist becomes a fog and it clouds around me, obscuring me from prying eyes. I recognize it for what it is – resignation. I am an anti-climax. The tone of the speculation changes,poor girl, she cannot be well, she will not marry, she will become a priestess in some temple by the sea.They speak of my wandering womb spreading hysteria about my heart and mind. Without a baby to hold it in place there must be a wrongness to me. They eye the mud that flecks my feet and exchange knowing looks. I smile at them placidly, as if I am oblivious to their jokes and rumours. They are embarrassed for me and it is greater than the draw of my face. They tug their eyes away, relieved at last to have a reason.She was always strange, they say,it is not natural, for a woman to be so bad at being beautiful.
I relish all of it. I have more of my own clothes made,kalasirisin brown and black, or dyed dark green. My beaded overlays are jade and tiger’s eye, loose in separate pieces, draping across my body so that I can run while still enjoying their skimming at my waist and thighs. I see my mother even less than before. I do not go to the hearth room; I brush my own hair, and I miss her like insects miss the sweet warm honey that gums their wings together, turning their spiraclesgooey and suffocating. I dine with Ceto in my own apartments and the world of the palace is us two alone. Outside with Achiroe, we swim and catch fish and sing, and she plays her turtle drum while we dance. I feel younger than I did as a child, as if I have aged backwards. I am silly and giggling, and I did not know I could be playful.
But I feel the wise grey eyes upon me still, they are the only ones that do not look away. It makes me uneasy. I tell Ceto as much but she is too light, these days, for such talk.
She lounges on her favourite daybed and says, ‘Now, Meda, you are used to eyes, are you not? How could anyone look away from your pretty face?’
I shove her, taking her by surprise. She falls to the floor but brings me with her. We land and roll, linen and limbs entwined. I pin her beneath me, my body flat against hers; she is stronger than me, but she cannot get purchase.
‘You laugh at me entirely too easily, worm.’
