I stare downstream, my future rolling out before me, and I see myself drifting downstream too, pulled inevitably towards the mouth that wishes to drink and drink. I cannot quench it.
‘And what of you?’ I ask Amphitrite wearily. Fatigue has seized me suddenly and it will not let me go. Ceto is a perfect statue of rage and denial,no no, never never, not a fucking chance. It is carved all over her bronzed and polished form. She will beg me to fight, I know she will. She will beg me to lie, cheat, steal us more time. And I would, I would, but I do not know how. The gods are angry.
‘I?’
‘You helped me. Gave me the potion. Will Lord Poseidon punish you?’
‘The Lord Poseidon does not know.’
‘What?’
She raises her chin defensively. ‘You should be grateful that it is so. He would have rained down holy terror had he discovered the truth.’
‘How? How does he not know?’
‘Artemis. Zeus called upon her to answer for your delay in transition and she said the fault was hers.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘I helped birth her. And her brother too. She honours such acts.’ Artemis, protector of childbirth, who found her own birth so traumatic that, after helping her mother – and Amphitrite, apparently – deliver her twin, vowed never to suffer labour. And so she sends the rest of us to her fate instead.
‘Well,’ I say bitterly, ‘that is something.’
Amphitrite returns to the palace with us and waits outside while I fetch the jar from where it is hidden behind my tapestry. I think of all my prayers of thanks, knelt at its base, head pressed to Artemis’ swift feet. I pass the jar containing my salvation out of the window. The Nereid takes it and is gone without a word.
‘Meda, we will find a way.’
I do not say anything.
She shakes me. ‘Meda!’
‘We were foolish to think this would work.’
‘We were not! There will be another way, another trick!’
‘Ceto—’
‘No, do not! Do not do this! Do not give up! Do not call me Ceto in that way! Call me worm and demand that I do not doubt you!’
I can only look at her. She sinks to the floor. Her hands clutch at mykalasiris, her face is set. ‘I will go to my master, I will convince him that he does not want you.’
‘I will not endanger you. There is no point in it.’
She shakes me harder. ‘There is!There is!You are not theirlittle queen, you will not be theirAndromeda, you cannot be, you aremine, you are my Meda!’
I stroke her face, bring it to me and kiss it, lick at the saltywet of her cheeks. ‘I will always be yours. I will be your queen and your Meda still.’ We lie together. Her chest heaves with sobs. Never before have I seen her cry. I shush her, rock her. Caring for her distracts me and brings me back to myself, my best self, where I am strong and assured and it will all be fine.
‘At least this way we will be together. At least this way you can protect me.’
I try to believe my own reassurance and keep my mind away from the image of crushing sediment, the heavy weight of oceans, the brutish pressure of the god whose silver-grey mass robbed me of breath and may, one day, dash me to pieces. Ceto drifts off eventually. Hiccups herself into a deep sleep and I am grateful for whatever peace she is able to find.
I linger somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness, in that place where my body is burdensome against the quivering wispiness of my mind. I see my father, staring wordlessly at my almost naked form, never moving to shield me. I see the writhing Gorgon as she petrifies all men who dare to touch what is not theirs. Her hands become mine, her wild, dangerous laugh crackles out of my mouth, I feel the weight of the god who took what he wanted, the weight of the snakes that guard her. I see my mother declaring, demanding. I see flashing grey eyes, looming before me. They blink. I blink back. They beckon. I follow. My body moves without my command, it is not my own. My soul and heart stay where they belong, warm in bed beside the woman who loves me.
I walk out of my apartments and through the empty palace. I am unused to seeing my home by night. I have become afraid of what lurks here, in the shadows, but there is nothing, no one. I cross the hearth room. The fire has not been lit in many moons and the air is stale with memory andartifice. The south court is vaster than ever, the monolith of my parents’ thrones looms larger than my reality has allowed. They tower over me as I pass them, walking through my father’s apartments. I never do this but the grey gaze blinks its summons.
I tread the familiar path between flowers, chrysanthemum, mandrake, poppy, rose. My body remembers them, knows the corners of the hedges and steps and turns without my instruction. It is so dark I cannot see and, though they try, the stars do little to help me. I step by the jasmine where Ceto and I brawled that first autumn. I am reaching the centre of the labyrinthine rows. Phineus is here. I register it dimly as he turns towards me. He too looks as though he sleepwalks, unsurprised in his recognition.
‘Andromeda.’
