The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my skin prickled as I gazed, transfixed, at the bone-white moon. This was not a wholly unpleasant sensation, more like greeting an old friend whom you never expected to see again.
Around me, the plants seemed to sigh. I’d established this garden myself over the years, nurturing the lush greenery with my own hands. This effort had been inspired by the dreams I had withincreasing regularity, of green hills that rose over a storm-lashed sea, and cliffs where you could watch the flights of griffins and fierce dragons. I dreamed not in Greek but in the tongue of Colchis, which I had not spoken for nearly two decades.
The house was silent. The boys were in bed, and Jason was off at the palace, as usual. There was no one to tug at my skirts or call me away. I looked up at the moon and felt her familiar pull, becoming almost weightless.
Around me was a garden in bloom, and above me were the stars. Behind me was a past I could not stop thinking about, and in front of me, a future I did not want.
A crossroads of sorts, in other words. The foundation of witchcraft.
It wasn’t really magic, I told myself as I began to dance. Magic required organization, planning, and preparation; this was simply a frenzied outburst by a woman who had been wound too tightly for too long. I began to dance, lifting my legs and arms, tossing my head, all to a soundless beat.
As the silent moon looked on, the dance began to speed up. The energy built and grew. When sweat began to drip into my eyes and my limbs ached with effort, I took that energy and threw it into a single aim:
Bring me love unconditional.
An echo of my first spell so long ago, like returning to childish toys amid the stress of midlife. There was little craft or finesse to it, but there was a great deal of passion. Between past and future, earth and sky, I asked the night and the leaves and the moonlight to carry my desire toward me like a chariot on shining wheels.
Not any coherent sort of magic, certainly nothing that would have been recorded in any magician’s book from distant Thebes. I could even fool myself into thinking it was not magic at all, savefor the instant guilt I felt at indulging in something necessary but forbidden.
I swayed in the center of the courtyard, panting with exertion. The night was silent, save for a donkey cart that clattered outside the walls of the house.
Hastily, I gathered up my things and crawled into bed.
“Mama, Mama, wake up,” Pheres said.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the bright sunlight and my son’s insistent voice. By now it was midday, and I was still bleary-eyed; my midnight dancing had cost me.
Little arms reached beneath the blanket to shake me, and I yelped. “Mama, I know you’re awake!”
The twins were truly unmanageable. Thessalus had never been such a difficult child.
“Mama, Mama!” Mermerus was more insistent than his brother. He flopped onto my belly, knocking the breath from my lungs. “Someone is at the door.”
My eyes flew open, and I swung upright, levering my legs off the bed. My joints made the approximate sound of logs crackling in the fireplace; I was in my early forties now and not as limber as I’d once been. My feet whispered along the floor, following the scampering steps of my sons.
To my utter astonishment, I opened the door to see Atalanta herself standing there, leaning against the doorframe in her dusty traveling clothes.
“Hello, Medea,” she said.
63
Medea
“Why does she dress like that, Mama?” Mermerus asked, staring slack-jawed at Atalanta’s riding leathers, as though she were some exotic creature dropped into our garden.
“Can I touch it?” Pheres asked, rising on tiptoe to examine her spear.
Just as I was about to chide them, Eirene appeared. The boys’ nurse, she was a superstitious woman, and I’d once caught her making the sign against the evil eye in my direction. But she was good at what she did and quickly bustled the children out of the courtyard.
“My apologies,” I said to Atalanta, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “They are like wild beasts sometimes.”
“They are only children.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “It is a difficult age, but a charming one.”
“Every age is difficult,” I replied bleakly, thinking of the long years of dishes, diapers, and darkness.
A little smile lifted the corner of Atalanta’s mouth as she stared off into the distance, recalling a pleasant memory. “I remember when my son was like that, so full of questions.”
The reminder struck me with the force of a slap. “That’s right. You have a son about the same age as Thessalus.”
