Ghost Queen in the House of Love

24. Onia

Ever since we kissed, I've avoided Circe, and she's avoided me. Or perhaps she's waiting to be summoned to my chambers or the Tower of Time.

Guilt gnaws at my stomach. For keeping her at a distance. For kissing her at all. For rejecting her once it was done. For denying myself yet again, as I'm starting to come into my own.

The gods have never taken to fidelity, but I have. Despite Mother rolling her eyes at how "plain" I was, even as a young woman. Even if Cadmus hasn't returned the favor, even if it's a ridiculous standard to place on myself when others never follow through.

I feel silly pacing in my chambers—how quickly my mind tells me they are mine—like a lovesick girl. Mother used to comment about how I was the strangest of all her children. Timid, mostly uninterested in the game of love and being loved. To me, it all seemed so exhausting, these tragedies and heartbreaks twisted into beautiful poetry. Both so monumental, and for most of the gods, fleeting. It wasn't that I didn't want a partner. Kissing, sex, yes, I enjoy it, but I need to truly care before I give someone my affection.

Despite all that, despite my nightly ruminations on whether I should give into temptation and stop pining and holding myself to lofty standards, my romance life has been only a minor part of my attention. Between the petitioners and working to help those suffering from the red scourge, especially with predictions of a flood on the harbor-side, I've had little time for personal matters and pleasant conversations.

When I'm not in the city, I don't see much of the stratigos; her hoplites are the ones that guard the throne room and feast area. I have been busy, also, dividing my time between the throne and the city. Recently, realizing that as punishment, those who take revenue for sex are forced to pay twice as many taxes as other citizens, if they've been granted citizenship at all, I did away with the mandate. And in the fields beyond the wall, as the warm season still lasts, I've instructed the hoplites to dig more ditches for irrigation, especially for the growth of more legumes.

Now, as I stand from my area at the table, abandoning part of my cooked pig, I gaze at the other guests but soon regret it. Halfway down, ignoring me, is Circe. Though she usually eats alone in her room, she sits with a plate of honeyed lamb and figs. Mildly, she picks at it, not touching the wine by her elbow.

I pause, lump in my throat, and turn my back to her before she notices me. But surely she must notice the queen at the head of the table, the royal laurel in my hair. And, too, a guest, a pretty girl of twelve, planted a wreath of yellow roses on my head, calling me the Golden Queen.

Atop the dais where the gods feast is one particular Olympian, a statuesque, curvy woman with a bed of flowering cornsilk curls on light copper shoulders.

When I approach her among the din of laughter and discussion, her eyes flash in recognition, and I'm grateful; she hasn't forgotten me yet.

I offer a deep bow. One cannot forget reverence to the Olympians, even if she's your own mother.

She perks up, finally setting the chosen mask upon her countenance. "Ah. You look much better."

"Thank you."

"Yes." the word trails off into a soft hiss as she struggles for the next word

"Harmonia," I say helpfully.

"I forgot if I had a pet name for you." Yes, that's what that was. She cocks her head side to side. "I haven't seen Cadmus. Shame. He could dance quite well."

Primly, I reply, "I'm afraid my marriage is shaky as of late."

Her eyes flicker between something behind us and me. "Yes, your marriage." I follow her gaze; Circe at the table, speaking to no one, only daintily focusing on her figs. But even as she doesn't meet my eyes, I sense she's listening or watching somehow. We immortals, after all, have keen hearing. "Let me think. There are many ways to create a romance for the epics. You could burn down the city and die tragically in his arms as he cradles you to his chest and weeps."