They face her warily, hands up once more.
‘You will ask the princess if you may touch her. Each time you touch her, you will ask her.’ They make as if to protest, gesture to their bags and rolls of papyrus, proof that they are professionals, but Ceto does not waver. ‘The last man who touched the princess without her consent lost his hands. These knives have not tasted blood in some time. They are very thirsty.’
Still her eyes hold my own. I stay with them, stay with her, I am apart from myself. The men try to be careful and follow their orders – as men with knives at their back are wont to do – they ask me each time,May I check your heart, princess? May I check your stomach?On and on. I feel my head nod and continue my separation; I am not in my body, I am not myself, I am elsewhere, floating in fathoms so pitch that men’s eyes are blinded and I cannot be seen. I cannot help the prick of tears, though, as their hands lay claim to parts of me as yet untouched. Ceto’s nostrils flare then, her wrist twitches, I think she may gut them where they stand, but I shake my head.They have not hurt me. It is not so very bad.I cry as I dress. They are tears of rage.
The physicians find nothing. They are obsequious and apologetic, they lick their lips and dart their eyes to Ceto’s knives.
‘Perhaps the Lady Artemis guards you jealously,’ they say, bowing. ‘Maybe she wants you for a priestess.’
They return to tell my parents so.It was not so very bad,it was not so very bad.I say it to myself over and over.It is a blessing, it is better than the alternative, it is better that I endure this now, just once, than endure Poseidon’s eternity.My movements are stiff. Ceto leads me from the palace, through the halls and out, out to the river. Achiroe waits for us there. She knows my face and eases me into the water immediately.
‘Well?’
‘They had physicians examine me.’
She reaches out to stroke my hair and I duck beneath the water. She understands, allows my space, gives me silence. I float on my back a while. The water laps at me, pulling away the worst of it, but it is not enough. I think about returning to the palace and calling for a bath but the passivity of such bathing, aided by others, does not provide the relief it used to. These days, with my quiet shunning, my attendants are not ordered to my rooms with warm spring violet water. I prefer the freshness of river bathing anyway, swimming wild, using pumice to scrub at my skin, emerging smelling as sweet and earthy as my grandmother. But today it is not enough.
‘Grandmama?’
‘Yes, mylittle queen?’ The name is softer on her tongue now. It is an endearment not an announcement.
‘Where are the springs?’
‘Which ones? There are many.’
‘The hot ones that smell of violets. They cannot be so far away. My attendants would bring the water from there for my bath. It would still be warm when they arrived.’
‘The springs are magic, they run with our divinity. That is why the water stayed warm. They are some miles away. For me it is half a day’s swim.’
‘Ceto?’
‘Meda.’
‘I should like a birthday excursion.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I am resolved. Achiroe opens her mouth to protest but closes it. I have contorted around the prints of their hands, and it is my birthday. My shape should be my own on my birthday. She explains where we are going, and Ceto is sure she will find it. She shifts before us, the first time in front of my grandmother. Achiroe’s eyes widen but she smiles, her cheeks two round plums, and pats the ridged head. ‘Go well, Cetus. Return whole, both of you.’
This second ride is different to the first. I am aware of how I affect the river around me, how my godhood twines with that of the Cetus, and the shared glory of our movements begins to shake loose the grip of the morning. I run my hands over her scales, lightly at first, teasing, and then, as I feel her rumble with pleasure beneath me, with more intent. She continues moving forward but I drag my nails lightly and there is a pulse and flutter, some smaller muscle twitching in response. I do it again and again, watching the flutter with the intensity of a mother bird teaching her young to fly. I am sitting at the base of her neck, a spike at my back, my chest pressed against the slope up to her head.
She turns a corner, takes it sharply, teasing me back, and I revel in the splash of water, finding a laugh. My hips twist in my seat, she is cool against the warm of my thighs, the damp cloth at my back scratches against the base of her spike and I feel that pulse and jump again. I lean forward, run my palm over one of the spikes on her head and her entire body ripples beneath me. Her forked tongue flicks out. Shehisses. I stroke again and she hisses more. I lean sideways and smile wickedly into the comforting dark encased in fiery iris. Her tongue flicks out once more and licks my nose. I cackle.
The water heats the closer we get to the springs and the Cetus shifts back into my Ceto once more.
‘Too hot for you, worm?’
‘I am a goddess. Burning is for weak little spinsters.’ She ducks as I splash her. I chase her to where the water bubbles and pools, steam rising, spiralling like pale dancers. The air is laced with violet, never overpowering, just enough to be noticeably soothing. I am reminded forcibly of my childhood bathing, but the nostalgia is sweet as the air, as sweet as being tended to and fussed over when I was small and too young to know that was all I was being made for. Ceto was forged not made, she knows only hardness and cold depths.
She floats now, eyes fluttering, breathing deeply. She is unfamiliar with the miracle that warm water works on bones and it is a pleasant lesson. The water is rich, thick and soupy with minerals, its heat stings and I relish its cleansing. I feel the skin they sullied peeling away and I shed the tears of the morning in deep catharsis until I am almost free of it.
Almost. I look towards my liberation. It was worth it for this.
The next thought occurs to me suddenly like a bell clang in my chest.
‘Ceto!’
