Ghost Queen in the House of Love

22. Onia

In the course of the next week, more people come for assistance with the scourge. Though my powers are limited, weak compared to Circe's, we do what we can. Whispers of awe pass through the court, but I can't feel as if it isn't enough. That soon, they will resent me for not being enough.

Where is Cadmus? I ask.

Who cares? Kora says once.

He is the king, after all. The people question his whereabouts, too, though this is far from the first time he's left the palace for days upon days. 

Perhaps it's for the best. I feel as if I'm a bird in a tiny cage, and I'm growing; the runes are changing my body, and when I feel my body carry itself in the space around me, it doesn't feel unwelcome, unworthy of the space.

And if I need room to grow, perhaps it is good Cadmus isn't here. In his place can be wings.

When Kora goes out into the city, she tells me what they say: "They talk of the golden queen healing the sick. Some insist they must be mistaken, that they must mean the king." And I think, perhaps so. Perhaps I can be the king in perpetuity.

Such dreams. Eventually, he will return, and I must adjust. But where once the possibility of change seemed too threatening, it flourishes.

The night is warm, blooming with the songs of cicadas and sparrows, when Kora informs Circe to come to my chambers.

"I want to go somewhere," I inform her as I stare out, fingers curled around the balcony curtain. Energy brims in me, power. I'm not sure what to do with it all.

Her voice soothes over me like the summer wind. "Where, exactly?"

I purse my lips in thought and ease into the room, wearing a silver stola. "The ocean is often quiet this time of night."

Her lips curl in amusement as she stands near the entrance, bold, unafraid of who sees or hears her. "Yes, the ocean, more of it."

"I do imagine seeing it every night might've gotten dull."

"No, not necessarily. In thousands of years, I suppose it more or less remained constant, but it changes day by day."

She comes close, looking down to meet my eyes, and as if she hears my wish, she extends both hands, palms up. I fold my grasp into hers, so she tenderly wraps her long fingers around mine, and her grip is warm, and so is mine. My arms, my back with my newest runes--wings. Only runes, I don't expect to fly like my brother, Eros.

Heat spreads through my entire body, and I close my eyes, smelling the pollen in the summer air and a hint of distant sea salt. The rush of blood thrums inside my head, until I realize it's the tides, and my bare heels are grinding against sand.

I open my eyes and look to see the liquid of the moon bleeding into the rippling sea. When our touches separate, I crave more. Under the brazen moon and rash of stars, I feel more alive.

Circe kneels some distance from me. For someone so self-assured, I don't understand the careful effort she takes in sitting on my level or below me. The last thing I've imagined a witch who only answered to herself for so long doing is being considerate. That is unkind.

Gliding to Circe, I settle beside her, stretching my feet out on the sand, which has long grown cool. For several minutes, I listen to Circe's deep breath without interrupting her. I wonder if she is remembering her prison, which might've after many, many years, become something like home.

When she meets my eyes, I murmur, "You aren't what I imagined."

"Yes, it must be that I left my ill intent at home, alongside my legion of men-animals."