Ghost Queen in the House of Love

12. Onia

Circe has been here for a week, but I only summoned her that one time to the Tower of Time. Since then, she has remained sparse. Her contradictions madden me, how she can so easily slip into the shadows but be loud and illuminating if she wants. The cavalier way she speaks of our sordid history, of what happened to her sister, is so unthinkable. I could never be so outwardly wry or coarse, even in jest.

The sigil she's placed on my arm, the small moon, has dulled and no longer aches at all. But I'm always aware of it. Waiting, dormant. I wonder if it really was meant to be a moon at all, since I stopped before she finished. I've asked Kora to check to see what Circe does in the stretch of time we're apart, but she seems to only go to the library to read scrolls.

When I awoke this morning, I was shocked that though my pain wasn't gone, I was refreshed. Ready to go to court, even with Cadmus missing; after all, it isn't as if I haven't carried court alone before. Even when he was there, even when he did most of the talking, I felt alone. The sun tumbling through the window didn't hit my eyes with the same promise of an acute headache.

The day has fared well so far. I managed to eat some slices of honeyed lamb with legumes. As I listen to petitions, I kick my sandals off and let my bare feet dangle, swaying from side to side. No one says a thing. I feared retribution if I were to act girlish, no longer the regal mockery of a statue.

If I sit straight enough and don't move, it subsides a little. A life without this ache seems like a distant dream.

No matter how I feel, I mustn't forget my duties to the people. The Olympians won't care if I act silly, so long as I don't trespass on their supremacy. I have the faint notion that I should go outside the palace for once, but I hesitate. Even if I have little to fear. Too many unknowns.

In the evening, with little to do, I look in the mirror and see the glimmer of my crown.

I don't feel entirely different, as if I've gone from relatively plain to shifting the fabric of the world around me, as if it were water. The difference, I think, is internal. Though I am not changed, I feel the capacity, the energy to start changing.

Candles burn around me. I spend many hours pacing from the washroom to my bedroom. When I think of reading from a scroll or using the loom, fatigue weighs down my bones, and my collarbone stings. Yet, the exhaustion isn't enough for me to sleep. Must remember to ask for poppy tea.

When I settle on the veranda outside my room, a breeze teases the thin linen of my robin egg-blue chiton, with two silver lines crossed in the front. I sigh, and allow it to caress me. Yet, I don't have enough peace to relax as the stars come out, and Ursa Major watches me.

I enter my bedroom, and loyal Kora is there to attend to my last needs, to help me remove the pearls and braids from my hair. When my cornsilk hair falls on my shoulders, a burden eases. Doesn't go away, but becomes less heavy.

As she goes to leave, I call her, "Kora?"

Her round face, red hair, hazel eyes, green around the irises while Circe's are gold. A passing urge in my stomach, a clench. It tells me something is wrong with Kora, but as I look at her, I can't tell what. The way her skin tightens around her mouth, the crux of her neck meeting her shoulders. It feels wrong.

She faces me. "Yes, my queen?"

"Before you retire, please bring Circe to my chambers."

The skin around her eyes scrunches. "Of course." She goes to leave.

I raise a hand. "Wait."

Jutting her chin over her shoulder, she asks, "Yes, my queen?"

As she watches me, her pupils dilate. Often, I've noticed, the black of her eyes pulsates, is larger than normal. "Are you feeling well?"