Ghost Queen in the House of Love

21. Hedone

More time passes, and I grow more comfortable. But as my comfort grows, so does my doubt and guilt. Paradoxically, the better I feel, the worse my guilt festers, and the worse I feel. I am a guest here with traitorous plans. I'm looking for a reason to betray Melinoë, and I think I have one. Tentatively.

So, the more comfortable I become, the more uncomfortable I am. Not with her or this place, but with the way of things. With my complacency.

If I take her side, I'm betraying Zeus, and the consequences for me will undoubtedly be worse.

To my shame, I fear drastically changing my reasonably comfortable circumstances, so I try to get the two men, Adonis and the one whose name I never learned, out of my mind. It's shockingly easier than I first thought. I have a single task I don't wish to do, and I don't need any distractions. After all, I'm starting to gain Melinoë's trust, which is good.

Which only augments my guilt.

It's good, this trust, this bond, but not for the reason I wanted. Or Zeus wanted, I start to blur the lines. For a long moment, I lapsed in my morals, and what does that say about me? No relationship is good when sowed through manipulation. That is my duty, but I don't want to commit to it. In coming here with terrible motives I convinced myself were good for myself and my family, I've hurt Melinoë, even if she doesn't know it yet. A knife slipped in unseen.

Yet.

At once, I'm growing closer to Melinoë and further from what I think to be just and right. The way things are. The way things must always be to keep the peace. I've isolated myself, creating different drawers in my head for different masks and truths, thinking they can all coincide.

Outside comes the occasional mating bellow of a male alligator. As the days grow hotter and more humid, I've taken up Melinoë's offer to transfigure more of the clothes in the wardrobe.

Your wardrobe, she told me, but maybe those garments belonged to someone else, once. After all, this place is full of ghosts.

***

Around midday, I eat a casual lunch with Melinoë. Penelope pads along the length of the table. Purple flames lick her deep gray fur.

"Your dog is on fire," I say to Melinoë.

"Yes. She's a good girl," she replies, and I'm not sure if Penelope is good because she's on fire or because she's kind. Or both.

I pick up one of the half-sliced peaches on my plate. "These are exquisite." As I lick my tongue along a soft crevice, I recall Adonis talking about peaches with the stranger.

"I'm glad you like them." No matter how quietly I speak from across the table, Melinoë listens. She hears everything. I wonder what she must see. If she sees me as whole or if she sees the cracks splintering the glass. If she could love me whole or broken. That is too much to ask.

Finishing the peach almost ravenously, its sticky juices on my fingers, I say, "I think I may be coming into my old weight again. I think I should thank you."

She blinks slowly. "You lost weight before we met?"

"Yes, I became much thinner, but I used to be curvier than I already am. What do you think?"

She leans back and ponders, her fingers on the table edge. "It isn't a matter of consequence to me, unless it is of consequence to you."

I ask, "What do you mean?"

Melinoë keeps staring ahead. "If you are satisfied with your look either way, then it's good. If you aren't, if you're concerned, then perhaps I can try to help."