‘Persea? You need only have asked, I would have sent someone for them.’ She stands, cups my face in her hands, turning it this way and that. ‘I do not like you taking risks, mylittle queen.’
‘It was no risk, my lady.’ Ceto speaks calmly. ‘I amoath-bound to protect her. I would not let anything happen to my future mistress.’
My mother returns to her seat. We are in her apartments. Over the last months her women have gradually retreated from outside of my door. I do not know if this is as a result of my ageing or Ceto’s presence, but I am glad for it. It seems that they too have acknowledged that harm is unlikely to befall me now that I am under the protection of Poseidon’s proxy.
‘Very well,’ my mother says thoughtfully, ‘these little excursions are probably good for you. You are positively glowing, my girl. I suppose you are safe with the Cetus.’
I do not bother to correct her; it does not matter with her. She reaches for me and kisses my cheek, a dismissal. I ache as I step back. The space yawns between us and some part of me longs to close it, longs to be reined in by her. I have played as her pretty pony all my life and I am suddenly frightened of freedom. I would have prayed at her altar, my divine mother, my personal Isis. When I think of Cassiopeia on her knees, praying to Tawaret, I think of my grandmother with a river-horse’s head. It is ironic, given how at odds my mother and grandmother are, but my grandmother is a confidante, great and protective, a lady of pure water whose bosom I would cling to for comfort. My mother was made for ruling. It is in her bones to wage wars, to face down death.She has been too long on the battlefield, I think.She does not know how to find peace.But then she has never sought peace or quiet. Those belong to my father, and he guards them jealously. He does not have to fight for them and so he cannot see how his wife dresses his daughter in herkalasirisas if it is armour, oils her face as if it is war paint and braids her hair as if tightening ahelmet. He is not blind, but it is easier for him not to see. It is less work.
Now that is has been agreed that my absence is allowed, no one takes much notice of it. My father and his advisors, the nobles and courtiers, most of them are glad to see less of me.
I have always unnerved them and do so even more now that I am followed by the Nereid with her fathomless eyes and the tumbling castor slick of her unbound hair. I have fewer lessons now, I can read and write and sew well enough for a future queen, and though my mother deems it necessary that I continue to practise at music and dance, I am permitted to do this without the watchful eyes of tutors.
Ceto and I spend much of our time with my grandmother. They have grown fond of each other. Achiroe weaves lilies in the Nereid’s hair, as in mine; she seems to know that Ceto is not used to fuss but secretly pleased by it. She tells us stories and teaches us songs, slapping the rhythm against the driest, barest patches of earth on the banks. Ceto comes one morning with a gift for her, the empty shell of a turtle. She presents Achiroe with the hollow once-home and a wooden stick, carved and smooth with a round ball of coral at its head.
‘For your drumming.’
She does this awkwardly, shy in a way that is new to me, and I feel a squeeze like I am being embraced from the inside out.
Achiroe kisses her cheek. ‘You are a good girl, Ceto.’
I don’t know that Ceto has ever been called a ‘good girl’, but I can tell that she likes it. Her face heats and she squirms in pleasure. I will remember this. My grandmother beginsto drum lightly, a quick stepping beat that makes my heart flutter. Ceto laughs and claps her hands. She looks so soft that I cannot help myself. I grasp her wrist.
‘Dance with me.’
It is not a question; I order it and she obeys. I spin her away and pull her towards me – it is only with her that I can be so bold. We face each other and she imitates my movements, looking at me hungrily. The shape of me is not enough to sate her, we move together, we each want more. She is perfect, precise, we have danced this dance before, we must have.Step, clap, step step, clap clap.On and on and on.
I do not see Phineus so often in my twentieth year. Occasionally I catch glimpses of him walking in my father’s wake. My attendants tell me this is where he spends most of his time now, learning the footsteps that will one day be his. I tend to avoid my father as much as I can, so Phineus drifts even further away.
He passes me one morning, stopping me with a smile. I feel an echo of before, a revenant of that non-place, where I rule a land I have not seen and am beloved by people I have never walked among.
‘Andromeda.’
‘Phineus.’
‘You are well?’ he asks with a sidelong glance at Ceto. She looks back coolly.
‘I am.’
‘You are sure?’ He looks at her again. He is asking something else, and I squint at him, reading the concern.
‘I am quite sure. Why? Did you hear I was unwell?’
He hesitates. ‘It is thought by most that you must be … unwell. You are … I mean to say, your time has not …’ He hesitates again and I dip my head in embarrassment.Of course.
I am unsure what to say. I shrug. ‘I am subject to the will of the gods. Perhaps Artemis is jealous with my maidenhead.’
He is still looking at Ceto, his eyes darting and narrowed.
She raises her eyebrow. ‘Is there something on my face, my lord, or have you some need of me?’
Her directness is at odds with the craft of court, but Phineus’ honesty has always been what I like best about him. He regards her for a moment, clearly deliberating on whether or not to speak freely in front of her. He seems to decide that it does not matter, because he says, ‘It is suspected among your father’s advisors that the Nereid has found a way to stay the day of judgement.’
‘And why would I do that?’ Ceto asks wryly.
‘It is thought that she acts in favour of her sister, Amphitrite. That she hopes to give her more time to find a way to sway the bargain in her favour.’ He answers as if I am the one who asked.
‘Ceto’s orders prevent her from being able to affect the judgement,’ I reassure him. ‘Do not worry, Uncle. Poseidon’s worm follows orders well.’
