Ghost Queen in the House of Love

15. Hedone

As cicadas scream, limpkins wail, and frogs bellow, Melinoë leads me behind the manor, into a labyrinth of sulking trees. Pale ghost eyes and knuckles dot the moss like berries. Vines run like spindles up the imperious cypresses.

Though I'm unsure if I could ever be truly content among the dead, I'm not as off-put as I was the first night I was here. As we go down a path, the moss dims the sunny day. The day's warming up, but the shade offers coolness for the alligators.

I look forward at her back. The runes even peek out of the witch-goddess' garment, crawl up her nape to a curly nest of dark hair.

If she wanted to imprison me, wouldn't she have done it by now?

Before we left the manor, Melinoë retrieved two wicker baskets and handed one to me. Alongside Penelope, we cross the damp ground as glittering dragonflies zip over smooth stones.

It doesn't take long to arrive at the garden; it's partly shaded, but enough sunlight fell on the array of plants. Despite the cool darkness of the swamp, it's a verdant circle with so much green it almost hurts me to look upon it. I'm also struck by the reds, golds, and blues dappling the garden.

We stand side by side between two copses of trees.

"I thought the soil would make it impossible," I murmur, broaching the end of our previous conversation as if without interruption.

"It makes it difficult, yes, but I have my ways. Mother and Grandmother taught me well." Melinoë stares straight ahead, a light breeze ruffling her curls. "And these particular plants tend to take to dampness more than others."

"Did you go to the surface to see Demeter?"

"Not often. I can only remember three times."

"Three times in an eternity? I suppose that's better than me. I can't recall the last time I saw my grandmother." The immortal one, anyhow; my mortal grandparents are long dead, and I never met Grandfather, Ares. I suppose he knows I exist. If only it'd do me any good; I suspect he'll help me as much as he helped Hippolyta.

I finish, "This is beautiful."

The murmur of flies swoops close to my ear, and Melinoë gives a closemouthed sound of recognition.

I look around at all the buzzing flies, a spinning globe over the plants. "Are pests an issue?"

"Not especially." Melinoë shrugs and hoists an arm up, her basket sliding down to the crook of her arm. "See how none land on the plants themselves? Let's say I've charmed everything here. This land is well-preserved. Many wolves come through here, but they don't bother anything."

I ask, "There are wolves?"

"Red wolves, yes." Something flickers across her dark eyes. "There are always wolves."

As Melinoë steps forward, and Penelope trots close, so do I, sans the lolling tongue. We approach an impressive line of flowering plants.

My attention, however, is most ensnared by the apple tree in the middle, where the plump fruits are shades of blushing gold and scarlet.

"At my home," I say, the word "home" an ache in my throat, "we have rows of orchids, lilies, fig trees, apple trees, lemon trees, anything and everything. Oh, I always loved lemon tarts, lemon cakes, lemon pies."

The swamp is always alive, always listening, so as I speak, the wind rustles the trees, and I swear it hums its own song, like the bone chimes back at the manor.

Melinoë dips down, as if to examine the red leaves of one of the plants. Then, she speaks: "I must admit, I am not the best at these things, but I wanted to tell you I'm sorry you can't go home because of whatever transpired between you and your parents."