Ghost Queen in the House of Love

20. Onia

Circe settles a gentle hand on Talia's shoulder, and the girl doesn't stir from what seems to be a fraught, sweat-drenched nightmare. I mirror the witch, becoming too aware of the weight around my neck, pressing against my nape. But I can't focus on that, the ways I've been made powerless because of the gods.

Though he cursed me, Hephaestus isn't here. I am the queen of the human court, and even as he settles to sleep beside my mother, he's likely forgotten about me. But Circe hasn't, and my people haven't. I can pine over how I didn't deserve what happened to me, but neither have any of us.

Neither have my people, this poor girl, who the gods have let become sick. Certainly, Apollo, who controls plagues, perhaps didn't send the red scourge here, but he doesn't try to stop it. Nor do I know if Hermes will answer my prayers.

I press my palm against the girl's other shoulder. She is feverish, but she shivers. Even without a hand over her pulse, I feel her heartbeat bleeding into mine; I share her rhythm, at first sluggish and then quick, desperate. I'm all too aware of everyone's heartbeats at once.

The stratigos, slow and steady, and Ismene, a rapid drum. Circe's, slow and deliberate. All pouring into me until I cease to me and there is only all of us. And emotions start to creep into me. Isolation from when I was instructed to set my daughter on the floor away from the bed, so she may not infect me. Loneliness and a swell in my throat as I grew more sick. Ismene, Talia, I feel them all. And determination to protect the queen, determination not to fail to save this girl. The stratigos, Circe.

A low golden light emanates from us, softening the boundaries between us and the rest of the world, from the stone floor we kneel upon.

Though I feel strong, my hands tremble. I let them, not deterred from our purpose, this union of my much weaker magic with hers. Her practiced, august guidance.

Ismene gasps, jerks back, and I see the stratigos at the door shift and go very still. That is how everything becomes when the light fades; frozen, as if suspended in amber. My vision tunnels, becomes vessels and marrow. I realize that Ismene has her daughter's hands in hers, gripping tight.

Then, beneath our hands, Talia's eyes snap open, and she sucks in a deep breath. And what I saw on her arms, the weeping welts, they're completely gone. I'm cold and tired, a catch in my throat, like when I've run in the rain for too long. Is this what it feels like to be a witch? But relief floods me, especially at Circe's next words.

Circe murmurs, "There is no more trace of sickness in her."

Talia murmurs a word again and again: "Mother." Tears in her eyes, Ismene takes her in her arms, cradling her daughter's clammy brow to her collarbone. Talia seems to be disoriented, but she wraps one arm around her mother and shuts her eyes.

"Thank you, thank you," she says, looking at me. The back of my neck prickles with heat. It doesn't feel right to accept her thanks. If I were a worthy queen, if I had stopped this curse and received this magic years ago, her daughter never would've gotten sick. I know it, deep in my heart.

"Is it really possible this is what we need to cure everyone in the city?"

Circe says, "You mustn't do too much."

With a sharp scoff, I tell her, "I am not a little dove. If I can't help them all, what sort of queen am I?"

"Without moderation, you'll outwork yourself before you even start."

"I felt your heart in mine. I felt everyone's. If we can feed into each other, then guide me. Be my second heart." After a pause, a heavy weight between us, I add in a whisper, "Please."