My bedroom is a room of silver, with gossamer silk festooned over the canopy. On the golden walls are depictions of winged creatures and lemon trees.

As I sit on the bed in a sheer linen gown, ready to sleep, I glance at the red tea on the marble nightstand. My elbow brushes against the gold-leafed ivory headrest as I straighten and go to reach for it. Above the bed leers the mounted head of a water-dragon Cadmus slew, a red tongue protruding from its serpent-like face of blue and green scales, a pointed fringe around its head.

Before I can drink it, Cadmus storms in, crown askew, staggering. Tipsy, enraged. But he's never been one to scream and throw tantrums.

I go still when he comes over to me, reeking of spirits. His fingers furl above my elbow, a firm clamp.

He whispers, deathly calm, blue eyes like ice, "Why did you leave the feast early?"

I swallow the lump in my throat, and it settles like a stone in the pit of my stomach. "Seeing her, it was hard."

Scowling, he shakes his head. Any insolence, and he'll shake me. "Don't speak that way. The gods have been nothing but kind."

"Kind?" My voice trembles. "After what they did to Semele? After they've killed . . ."

"Silence." He squeezes my arm tighter, and it hurts. Lowly, he hisses, "You will get us killed, you idiot." Raising his voice to normal, he adds, "Yes, they've been generous. Very much so."

We share a long look, and he releases. The spot will still bruise. I hold myself in my own arms; I cannot recall when someone else has held me.

As he goes over to the vanity, I hear his crown scrape against wood. "I've received correspondence from the King of Olympus himself. He says he might have a solution for our dilemma." Our. As if he can share the pain of a curse embedded in my skin. "He'll be sending someone shortly, a witch from the south of Rome."

"That's wonderful. Thank you. You are far too kind to me."

Voice even and slick as poison, Cadmus says to me, "If he comes, you should show your gratitude however you can. You know what he likes." After so many demands like that, so many indignities, I'm numb. Like that first second after a slap, before shock gives way to blistering pain.

I suck in a deep breath through my nose. I hope he doesn't notice. I let my mind wander to the courtyard fountain. The cool water running over my fingers. I think of it when I need a safe place to escape. "Yes, of course."

He comes over me and digs his fingers into my shoulder.

"'My king'," he says, stern as his reflection pins me down.

"My king."

He lets me go and leans to kiss my cheek. Though I feel like the ghost, he's the one who haunts me as he settles into bed. And I rest with my back to him. Even dressed in refinery, amid silks and jewels, I am but a walking corpse. Hair lifeless, hazel eyes dim.

How selfish it feels to complain as the world trudges along and so many go without. One slight against a god can lead to decades of famine or plague.

I am fortunate.

I mustn't complain.

I should be grateful.

To complain is to provoke, and should I provoke the gods, I won't be the only one who suffers. I must be brave for everyone.

As I try to sleep, I wonder who will try to help me. What their eyes or voice must be like. If I can trust them. My only relief from my endlessly spinning thoughts are the poppy seeds in my tea. As I set a clean towel atop my pillow, I pray for a dreamless, painless night.