Page 54 of Inkpot Gods

(In later years, when her days are consumed by the Up-and-Under, Asphodel will look at her own descriptions of the Drowned Girl, Niamh, and see this moment again. It will not make her heart any softer … but she will write a kinder ending for her Drowned Girl, and she will be glad of it.)

Asphodel-now, Asphodel-bleeding, Asphodel holds her breath and watches the woman come, unwilling to be the one to break the silence.

The stranger does it for her. “Well met, alchemist,” she calls, as she approaches. “You called?”

“My lord?”

The stranger’s laughter is a bell ringing in the darkness. “No,” she says, once her amusement has passed. “I am not my student-nephew, who brings the wine, who brings the brightness of true thought. I am nothing half so great as he. But you called him on our behalf, and I am come, as you requested, to see what you desire.”

Asphodel’s entire body feels light, the blood dripping from her arm taking all her weight with it. “You are one of the Hyades?”

“My name is Phaesyle,” says the woman. “We all have names. We’re not just the living embodiment of rain, you know. They name the Horae, but we’re lucky to get a number, much less the personal touch of our own—”

“Thank you for answering me,” says Asphodel. She isn’t sure how long she can stay upright, but she’s sure that once she collapses, whatever she’s done here will be undone. “Do you know why it doesn’t rain in Boston?”

“You mean you don’t?” Phaesyle’s astonishment is entirely unfeigned. She gestures toward the goblet in Asphodel’s hand. “That’s for me, isn’t it? Give it here. I need a drink if I’m going to deal with this.”

Asphodel holds the goblet out in offering. “Come and take it,” she says.

“Come into your circle, you mean? Little alchemist, how foolish do you think we are?” Phaesyle gives her an indulgent look. “But then, you’re bleeding more than you intended, I think, and you’re no real threat to me now. And I want a drink.”

She steps into the circle, hand outstretched for the goblet. Asphodel passes it to her, and watches as the Hyade drinks it dry in one long swallow, not pausing to savor or to breathe.

“Better,” says Phaesyle, dropping the goblet to the ground. She eyes Asphodel. “I find it hard to believe that you don’t know. Have you never asked yourself where flowers come from?”

“My lady?”

“They follow the rain,” says Phaesyle. “They come after the storm. You came after the storm, little flower, when he lay down with your mother and claimed her as his own. We’re distant cousins, you and I—very distant, because you were born in mortal flesh and embody nothing but yourself, while I have lived for centuries in one skin after another, moving between embodiments as the need arises.”

“I don’t understand. What are you…?”

“Rain is not always born of storms. He summons some of my sisters with him when he travels, but the rest of us stay clear of his presence, because he’s not a faithful man. He may have loved your mother, once. That won’t keep him from our beds if he finds us walking too close to what he calls his own. You bar the rain, little alchemist, because there’s too much of lightning in your blood. You keep the storm away, until your father comes to face you.”

“But … I’m mortal-born! I’ve been told so many times.”

“And none of that matters where he is concerned. The only storm that can sow fully human flowers. You aren’t divine, but you’re of his garden, all the same.”

“How can I bring the rain back to Boston?”

“Leave? Die?” Phaesyle shrugs. “It’s all the same to me. Nothing will break the barrier of your blood but blood itself.”

“That was what I was afraid you’d say,” says Asphodel. She straightens. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate your attendance more than you can know.”

“I’m a goddess, if only a minor one. I know precisely how well my presence is appreciated, and I appreciate the wine. I am pleased to have seen you so closely, daughter of the storm.” She begins walking backward, the silver goblet still held loosely in her hand.

The sound she makes when Miss Cottingsly’s knife slides between her ribs is small and tight, more surprise than pain. Her eyes go wide, face tilting upward just enough to let her gaze lock with Asphodel’s, and the silver goblet slips from her hand to clatter on the ground. It’s already empty: there’s nothing left to spill.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer any portentous last words, only drops to her knees and collapses face-first over the border into Asphodel’s circle, Miss Cottingsly’s knife still protruding from her back.

“That was more efficient than I expected,” says Asphodel, trying to sound like she’s not disturbed, like she sees women stabbed in front of her every day.

“Been doing my job for a long time now,” says Miss Cottingsly. “I’d be a poor housekeeper if I didn’t know how to kill someone on the first hit, and keep them down once I’ve decided to. Will we deal with her here, miss?”

“No, that’s not the plan,” says Asphodel. The beach is still empty below them, the house of her uncle’s associate still dark, with no signs of motion in the windows, but that could change at any moment. The alchemical world protects its own, as much as it can manage. That’s not going to help her if the authorities get involved. “We’ll take her back to the house, and deal with her there.”

“Yes, miss,” says Miss Cottingsly mildly.

Together, they’re able to carry the things they brought to cast the circle and the body of Phaesyle back to their carriage. The driver watches impassively as they hoist the dead woman inside. He doesn’t offer to help them, but he doesn’t react as if they’re doing anything strange, either, and under the circumstances, Asphodel is just as happy with his apparent disinterest as she’d be with anything else.