‘You were promised? By whom? The gods?’ She chuckles, but it’s all steel, no mirth. ‘Promises pale when it comes to crowns. It’s best to take them if you can. Show your strength. The gods can bless you, or they can curse you – that is their prerogative.’
Who is this woman? How is she so unafraid? I try to look behind the blood, behind the threats to kill me, but she remains unsolvable. As opaque as this white world around us. ‘Who are you, really?’ Sensing the thunder brewing in her brow, I raise my hand. ‘Tell me again. This time, use terms that I might understand.’
She bristles. ‘What is there to misunderstand? My name is Klytemnestra. I rule Mycenae. I was about to dispose of my last enemy before … all this.’ She actually sits down properly, using the tip of her knife for balance. With the floor obscured again, it looks like she’s floating on unseen clouds. A scantily clad demon, resting in celestial skies. ‘Now,’ she continues, ‘I wonder if my crown will be stolen from under my nose because I can’t find a gods-doomed door in a hallway that’s awash with them. I always knew the gods had a nasty sense of humour …’ A pause. A copper gaze, sparkling with something not unlike intelligence. ‘Making sense now?’
‘Klytemnestra …’ I struggle with the foreign syllables, but only for a bit. ‘Ha,’ I say, because somewhere between her squatting in that ridiculous dress and the world winking out of existence yet again, my fear for her must havesubsided. She seems more inclined to converse with me than kill me. I don’t blame her – I’m reluctant company, but even that is company enough. Preferable to wandering alone, in unseen corridors for eternity.
Perhaps I can postpone my plans to disarm her, till our circumstances change.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she demands.
‘Nothing, forgive me. It’s just that your name … even your name sounds like claret.’
‘Claret.’ Now it’s her turn to sound unfamiliar with the word. ‘You keep repeating that. What does it mean?’ She raises her hand, mimicking my earlier gesture. ‘In terms that I might understand,’ she adds. Is there humour hiding there, underneath her heavy cloak of horror?
‘Claret means blood,’ I say, pointing at her – anywhere about her person would be applicable. ‘The colour of blood, to be exact.’
She considers this, then shrugs. ‘I’ve been called worse. I will certainly be called worse, once I’m back in my palace.’ She says ‘once’, not ‘if’. Like it’s simply a matter of time. Like the white around us will acknowledge her, and split apart by her sheer force of will, as the night skies are split apart by a bolt of lightning.
I’m almost inclined to believe her.
‘Now you know my name,’ she muses, ‘but you’ve yet to tell me yours.’
‘I told you mine,’ I protest.
‘I don’t need your husband’s name, woman. Some queen you strive to be … Don’t you have a name of your own?’
Her question rattles me more than it should. How ridiculous, of course I have a name.
Don’t I?A deep, gnawing hesitation takes residenceagainst my ribs, a flock of birds perched uncomfortably close, their plumage hiding something I once thought was obvious.
‘I … I don’t remember it, at present. I was called Lady Macbeth, by most.’
Being trapped in this pallid prison must be messing with my memories. What else have I forgotten? I think back to my castle; to my husband’s face; to the witches in the woods. The images are there, but they seem hazy – there is a distance between them and me. As if I have derailed so much from my expected life’s script that it’s impossible to find my way back to it.
‘I don’t like that name. I’ll call you Anassa,’ the woman says, and my mind goes silent.
I stare at her, amazed at how such a little thing, a given name, can change our whole dynamic.Anassa… it means queen, doesn’t it? Imagine organizing a coup, ingesting poison by choice, battling a forest, getting imprisoned in the pale beyond, for theone thingI’ve ever wanted to be called to now be granted mine. Freely. From the unlikeliest of mouths. A half-smile forms on my lips, quickly schooled into a grimace. ‘Thank you,’ I tell Klytemnestra.
One mustn’t show demon women too much appreciation, even when one is being courteous.
She nods. Then, she gets up. ‘The way I see it, we now share a common enemy: this realm, and its bid to break our spirit. I don’t intend to let my enemies rejoice. Work with me,Anassa. Let’s figure out how to escape this net,’ she says. And then, after a beat, and with her lips returning my half-smile: ‘I promise not to kill you until then.’
I pretend to think about it for a moment, to take themeasure of our situation. Two queens, a single knife between us that she’s not in any hurry to relinquish. Strategic partnerships have started with way less. It makes more sense to traverse this veiled castle as associates, despite the fact that our tenuous alliance might still end in blood. Possibly mine. Hopefully hers, if I have my way. Still, she allows me this moment of conferring with my pride. ‘All right,’ I say eventually. ‘Do lead the way,Claret.’ A given name, for a given name. Both suit us fine.
In that moment, despite her shorter stature, she towers over me. Her eyes lock on to mine with such ferocity, I wonder whether I have insulted her – who knows what customs these Mycenaeans may have, if calling their queen by a different name is a step too far. But after a while she nods, and extends her bloody hand to help me get up.
In a fit of sudden boldness, I accept it.
Our skin touches, and the world becomes substantial once more.
‘No, don’t let go,’ I warn when I feel her fingers slipping. Her eyes wide, she is as stunned as I am to see the colours bleeding through again. There they are: the doors, the carpet on the floor, the ceiling, the low-flickering sconces. I’m so ecstatic at this ordinary sight I don’t even mind the sticky warmth of bloody fingers. Instead of recoiling at her touch, I squeeze tight.
Because I’ve finally understood. It’s our combined hands that bring back the vividness.
A trio of witches snickers in the cobwebs of my mind. When they spoke of claret paths, it appears they were more literal than one could have anticipated.
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘Don’t let go of my hand. See? Thewhite fog parts when we keep touching. I don’t know why. But you were not wrong to suggest we work together.’
