I kiss her. Trail my hand across her belly. ‘And now? Do you want me now?’
‘Yes. Again. Please.’
When the storm arrives, the people do not know to be wary. Lightning cleaves its path through the skies, thunder rumbles in its wake. Preparation flurries, rain rituals and feasting. The Nile has not yet flooded, but we are readying for the harvest and though the yield is strong already, moisture is always welcome. My father’s advisors gather to discuss crop distribution and early-year planting. My mother’s women stand at the windows of her apartments to watch. They are all excited, entertained by this rare show – but Ceto and I notice what they do not.
There are no clouds.
The warm daffodil brightness of the day is eerily at odds with the purple streaking across the sky, which is still blue, as blue as my grandmother’s lilies. The rain does not come. The thunder rages, its crashes splintering my bones. My heart beats loudly, louder than it has done in a long time, as if replying to the choler in the air. The wrongness of it swells.
Achiroe departs to seek her father, her demeanour uneasy, her eyes sliding over where Ceto and I sit, hands tightly entwined, as though each flash and crack seeks to split us apart. We do not speak. We do not leave the banks. We are both, somehow, waiting for something. Achiroe’s returnperhaps, or something more. We watch the sky, praying for one droplet, the tiniest wet bead of normality. But the day is dry still. Apollo’s chariot streaks by; I read it as augurs read birds. Fire rages behind it as if the sky itself has been struck by lightning, expending one final, coruscating flare, burning white into my eyes. Night rushes in as though hasty to be on with its business and Achiroe does not return. The bite of the chill is sharper than usual as Ceto and I huddle close on the banks. We do not worry for my grandmother, but her absence signifies an emptiness, a vulnerability. The guardian of this stretch of river has left her post and we feel it.
Ceto becomes rigid beside me. She points. At first, absurdly, I think it is coral, rising from the Nile. But Amphitrite grows like a poppy through the flood, pale stems luminous though there is no moon tonight. Selene too has taken leave of her task.
‘Sister?’
‘There is trouble.’
As ever, Amphitrite is not careful with her words.
‘Trouble?’ I ask. Ceto and I rise as one. She positions me behind her, ever so slightly.
‘You must return the jar.’
‘What?’ I look between the sisters in alarm. Ceto should not hear this. She has evaded her master’s questions for nearly two years. We have been doing so well. Amphitrite, though, appears to be done with caution.
‘It does not matter if Ceto hears. It is over now. Give me the jar.’
‘Why?’
She looks as if she does not want to answer. Out of a rankling at having to explain herself to a mortal or a reluctanceborn of the curious affection that lingers between her and her sister, I do not know. But then she says, her voice muted and tense, ‘The gods are angry.’
Those words are too big for me.
‘Which gods? Why?’ Dread like ribs, fencing in my breath, and Ceto, my spine, anchoring my fleshy places, preventing me from puddling in terror.
‘They believe the gifts they gave you have been squandered. The natural course of things altered.’ I am small, I am just a girl, I am mortal,I am standing in transparent linen being laughed at by men …
‘You have attempted to defy the Fates and even they cannot do that,’ she continues, pressing her lips together. ‘There will be a course correction. There will be a punishment.’
It has been so long since I felt truly afraid that I have forgotten the horror of it. It is not just the thought of such magnitudes set against me, a pantheon of Poseidons, it is the nightmare that is fear itself. I might run from the gods, I would not get very far but I might. But I cannot run from fear. Ceto is stood fully in front of me now; I had not noticed her move but she reaches back and takes my hand.
‘Surely … surely they must understand. I meant no malice but I am … I could not withstand what was laid out before me. Surely they will be merciful.’
‘They have yetbeenmerciful. They have allowed you this time.’ Another thing I have forgotten, at the centre of my small world: there can be no care when forever is asked to consider for now.
‘And now they will have their vengeance? Is that it?’ Ceto spits the words. The Cetus shimmers just beyond our reach but Amphitrite is unimpressed.
‘They feel her mother’s hubris must not go unchecked.’
‘But it is not Meda’s hubris! It is not hers! They punish unjustly!’
This last word pricks my ears and I cling to a strand of hope.
‘What of Athena? Our kin? What says she?’
Is it pity that clouds Amphitrite’s face? Or am I too generous, and it is contempt for my pleading?
‘An oath was sworn. What is just is that it is not reneged upon.’
