The East Wind is folding a pair of trousers when I poke my head into his bedroom. The urge to move closer, flatten my body alongside his, has sharpened in the time since separating. But I maintain my distance.
“I’d like to say farewell to Demi before we leave,” I tell him.
He lifts his head. For a moment, all is laid bare across his countenance, every conflicted emotion, the turmoil unrequited questions bring. Then it shutters, and I am left with nothing.
“Very well,” he says. “Meet me downstairs when you’re done.”
I find Demi in the kitchen kneading a ball of dough, flour coating her from wrist to elbow. Last night’s exquisite gown has been exchanged for a humble cotton dress. Bare feet poke from beneath the hem, and her dark locks have been secured in a messy tail. No face paint.
“So,” she says, shoving the heels of her palms into the dough. “You’re leaving us at last.”
Upon reaching the kitchen table, I halt. The pain from when we last spoke lingers. “I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” The goddess gives a near inaudible scoff. “I never liked that word. What is so good about parting?” Lifting the ball, she hurls it against the battered tabletop, and again, again. She punches the dough, hard, before expelling a shuddering breath.
“You’re upset that I’m leaving.” It is not a question, though I would have phrased it as such, once, unable to trust my intuition for fear of what it meant if I were wrong. But I see now that sadness is sadness, no matter whether it is mortal or divine.
“I understand this is not your home. Of course you would not stay.” She stares down at her flour-coated hands. “But I confess I’ve grown”—she huffs—“attachedto you.”
It should not warm me, to hear her express her fondness toward me, however reluctant. But it does, and my soft, mortal heart lowers its guard. “My presence here was always temporary,” I remind her.
“I know,” she whispers, head hanging, “but I don’t want us to part when things are unfinished.”
Then those lambent cat eyes lift to mine, and they shine with unshed tears. The sight roots me in place.
“I’m sorry I was not honest with you. I regret that, Min. I really do.”
My airway tightens, for Ifeelher remorse, know it to be genuine. Can that not be enough, I wonder.
“Look,” I say, moving around the table. “I understand why you did it.”
“It was a lie.”
“What?”
“Yesterday, you asked me how I could have deceived you. I told you that if I wanted my voice to have meaning, I needed to act in accordance with what was best for the realm. But it was a lie.”
“I see.” When her fingers curl claw-like into the dough, I reach out and gently extract them. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I was afraid,” she says, “of what you would think of me if you knew the truth. How your perception of me would change.”
She turns to face me. Demi is a goddess, yet she is small in this moment, her back stooped by guilt. “I didn’t vote for the Anemoi’s banishment. At least, not at first. Originally, I votedagainsttheir banishment. I did not think it right, considering the Anemoi had helped seat us into power. But I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That if I was the sole dissenting opinion, the council might question my place amongst them. If they had voted me out, I would have no voice at all. So I changed my vote. I am… ashamed of that. Ashamed that I chose to remain silent.”
I can understand that. However— “If you love someone,” I say, “you don’t turn your back on them.”
The goddess proceeds to separate the dough into four balls. For once, she is unable to meet my eyes, instead of the other way around. “That’s the thing, Min.” She presses them flat, shaping the edges into shallow shells. “The truth of the matter is, Eurus and I never loved each other. The divine are notoriously selfish when it comes to affection. We demand it but are unwilling to give any ourselves. But you, love?” She sets the first tart onto the sheet pan, then the second, saying, “I have watched you all these weeks learn to love someone who has not been shown love in a very long time.”
Does she speak of Eurus, I wonder, or does she speak of me? “Can I be honest?”
She places the next tart onto the pan, then nods, albeit reluctantly.
“When you informed me that you were the Mother of Earth, I didn’t believe you. Not initially. I always expected the Mother of Earth to be,I don’t know, modest? Approachable? Not outfitted in expensive gowns and shoes that pinch your feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I rush to say. “But it surprised me.”
For whatever reason, Demi appears terribly aggrieved. Her words, when they come, are sorrowful, and low. “I suppose I have always been fearful of embracing this side of myself.”
