I check the washroom for ghosts, and thankfully, it's empty. Warming the smoothed rocks in the stone furnace, right in the corner of the room, I use a heavy basin to fill a large, lion-clawed tub by setting it on top of the furnace and waiting for steam to rise. I wonder if the goddess of ghosts warms her water like this. Or if her magic makes washing herself much more convenient.

Imagine having the power to bring ghosts to the solid earth but not enough to fill the tubs automatically with hot water, should someone wish it. With ideas this brilliant, I should've been born to witch-goddesses. Hot baths for everyone.

That takes the longest, though peeling my clothes off myself isn't easy. I'm far used to the kind and clever nymphs and naiads of the island meadows and creeks assisting me, their chitons gold and scarlet in the sunlight. That is, those who wore clothes at all. Modesty wasn't much of a concern, nor was nudity painted in a shameful and lurid brush.

After a long bath, the water long cooled, I look in the wardrobe and find a cream-colored chemise. When I put it on, it's a little too much in the sleeves, but it fits well enough.

I consider sneaking about, but I suspect Melinoë doesn't sleep at night. Gods don't need to rest, though it's refreshing. But the stories say the goddess of ghosts travels at night; when she was under Hades and Persephone’s jurisdiction, she was not allowed to haunt the earth during the day.

Before I retire, I place my phial, filled with inky darkness, in one of the pillowcases. Best to keep it close.

I sleep well under the silken crimson sheets. And dream of a garden with hemlock and pomegranates. One fruit is split open and swollen, bursting with red juice and shining in the golden sunlight.

But when I try to pinch off a seed to eat it, red smears my fingers, becomes paste that clings to my skin. No matter how much I attempt to put the seeds to my lips to taste them, they stain my skin, seep into my ichor. I smell and taste smoke, sulfur, and roses.

Somewhere, hounds bark.

When I wake up, the sunlight that streams through the burgundy curtains is gray. Outside, birds warble, and a constant knocking—a woodpecker? Rubbing my eyes and taking in the room, reality slowly creeps back into my head.

I have a mission. Melinoë has secrets, and I must expose them.

More than anything, I want to know what's in the west wing. I must investigate somehow. Any secrets she has, I must uncover.

My family’s continued peace counts on it.

Stretching, I listen. Beyond the birds, nothing. No footsteps or whispers. At least, not at first. When my eyes are still a little blurry, I rub them.

When I look out the window while brushing my hair, I toss the curtains aside a tad dramatically. No ghost-eyes greet me, nothing but a bluejay. I wonder where the ghosts go during the day—in the cellar, in cabinets, in the mirrors.

I have a better look at the garden. Though I can't name many of the flowers, there are many hues of gold, orange, and red. Some of the trees bloom white and pink petals and walnut and crab apple trees stipple the dark ground. Ah, there's a specter. The faint form of a woman with silvery hair in the sunlight, under the walnut tree; she shifts her chin to look at me, eerie blue gaze curious.

I look away. Some of the crab apples have fallen, small and green. Alligators snake around the trees, lazily resting in the shade. A few have the fruits in their daggered mouths, quite content. For alligators.

A soft song in the air, and I realize in horror, on the trees hang wind chimes made of bone, disturbed by the light breeze. It unsettled me, all the bones, ghosts, and teeth, so I fully turn away.

Going to the wardrobe, I peruse my options, wondering whose clothes these are.

Does Melinoë suspect anything? Will she punish me? Worse, will Zeus if I fail? My hands start to shake.

I must keep a happy face. I am the goddess of happiness and pleasure without pain. Any pain, and I deteriorate. Thanks to my relative isolation, I've kept myself from crumbling.

Concentrate, Hedone. You must maintain yourself.

Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and inhale. Cold settles in me, in my heart. One I cannot show anyone. I cannot go crawling back to Mother and Father, as much as I wished they’d wrap me in their wings. Never let me go, let me be their little dove nestled by the fireplace.

My hand is tight on a piece of fabric, and I inspect what I've found, a vanilla dress with yellow highlights around the neck lace. Far more restrictive than the attire I wore here, which is now in a messy pool by the tub. Less than ideal compared to the flowing dresses I sauntered about in at home. But it's pretty, and it’ll have to do.

After dressing and ensuring all the laces are tied, and failing, I fool with the fabric at the base of my chin before forcing herself to stop.

I haven't faced too much in my life; everything feels concentrated in the last year.

But I can face this. Face Zeus. Face Melinoë. I'm a goddess, as much as her.

And Mother, she transcended mortality. Faced death many times. She never talked about her trials and grief with pride, but there was no doubt she was a proud woman.

When I walk down to the main floor, I follow the scent of lamb, only to find an immense, arched dining room with a crystal chandelier, which has long lost its luster. Honey and wine fills my nose, and my mouth waters.

Melinoë sits at the head of the table, looking forward. But not at me. That is, until I formally enter the room and stand at the other end. The far other end.

“Good morning,” I say.

Melinoë nods once, one hand clasped atop the other. “Yes, morning.”

I inspect the food, the glazed lamb. A modest spread compared to the Olympian dinners. Not that many meals can compare. “Did you make this?”

Flatly, Melinoë replies, “Technically, yes. I conjured it.” Her voice is low, a raspy monotone. Not unpleasant, like a finger teasing my spine.

I'm hungry, but not. And then I noticed the alligator at the burning hearth.

“Please sit,” Melinoë says, adding after a beat, “if you wish.” She follows my gaze. “Don’t mind him. He likes the warmth.”

I must get to know her.

Sit at this end or get closer.

Deciding to not test my fortune, I sit at the end and taste what's inside the simple goblet. Red wine, spiced with cinnamon and cloves.

I joke, “It’s never too early for wine.”

“You’re the goddess of hedonism,” Melinoë states. I wait for some sort of elaboration, but she remains quiet.

“Yes.” I tilt my head in acknowledgment. “Some misunderstand it as libertinism, but I, I prefer not to cause anyone pain.”

“Not even pain for pleasure?” Melinoë asks with a lack of inflection, inspecting her full wine glass.

“It depends.” My nails dig into her palm, and my throat constricts. Though I want to soothe my hand on my neck, I force myself to rest my hand flat on the lacquered table.

Melinoë gives a graceful shrug. “Such topics elude me.”

“I could teach you,” I say. She arches a brow. “Oh no, nothing like that. I simply mean general pleasures.”

"I suppose." Melinoë leans back, eyes half-lidded. “When one looks like me, you don’t have many propositions.”

Without thinking, I ask, “Do you want propositions?” I should slap myself right now.

Melinoë pauses, and her expression hardens. “No. It'd be another hassle I’d have to deal with. Especially when I don’t enjoy fostering most relationships at all.” A crack, a door opened only a sliver. I let it linger without pressing her. Let her give these truths without consequence. That'll make her trust me. She says with her same quiet and measured tone, “Now, most of the food is over here with me.” A pause. “If you wish, I will depart.”

Numbly, heartbeat quick in my throat, I stand, work to keep my legs from failing me. The table, the room, is long, and I must play silly and unthinkingly coy. I make it to the chair she extends an open palm to, the one by her right side.

As I sit, I say, “I’m sure you must experience pleasure. All the flowers and trees around here.” Of course she doesn’t. She’s the goddess of ghosts, not pretty flowers.

Expression inscrutable, Melinoë says, “Yes, I suppose. I am not dependent on amorous matters like some. At least, I imagine it would take time."

I have to keep myself from visibly bristling. “Pardon? ‘Like some’?”

No change in her expression. “I only say some must draw power on such things. I have my rituals, you have—what you have.”

I retort, “There’s more to pleasure than you think.”

Melinoë taps on the table. “I’m sure there is, but life is certainly complicated enough without worrying over that.”

“Indeed it is, complicated,” I murmur. And when I see Melinoë’s hand, the sleeve pushed up, I'm entranced by the glowing symbols on—in—Melinoë’s skin.

Before I can stop herself, the wine already sloshing in my head, I gently put my fingers by hers, and as our thumbs graze one another, I'm shocked that her skin is warm, thrumming.

“You presume too much.” Melinoë frowns. But she doesn't pull away.

I do. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m just so terribly grateful for your help. I know it must be lonely out here.”

Melinoë says stiffly, looking off at the window; there was nothing there. “I prefer it that way.”

“Even in a place as dreary as this? I. Don’t take me wrongly. There’s a beauty here, but the swamp is so dark. To be alone here . . .”

She blinks slowly. “It’s much like home.”

“Indeed.” I must play my part well. No need to take great pains to change her presumptions. “You’ve never thought to be somewhere a little brighter? A little prettier?”

Plainly, Melinoë replies, “This area is perfectly suitable.”

“The garden, did you grow it yourself? I didn’t think many plants could grow in a swamp.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “Yes, they can’t. They struggle to form deep roots.”

“Was that something you learned from your mother?”

Melinoë looks up from under her lowered brow. “You’re very curious.”

“I just like talking.” I want to ask what the magic symbols mean. "The wine, you know."

Melinoë gives me a level stare. “I will be in the library. Perhaps I will go to collect herbs later.” I make a note of that. As if reading my thoughts, Melinoë adds, “I won’t be gone for long.”

“What shall I do?” I ask her.

“I’m not your master. You can do as you wish.” With a rougher edge, she continues, “Given our established rules, you can go anywhere except—”

“The west wing.”

“Yes.”

I blink, more rapidly. Not as elegant. “Do you need me to help with anything?”

Melinoë sniffs, though I swear a glint of surprise flickers across her eyes. “I’ve survived this long without help.” The next words come out strangely, “But thank you.” Her forefinger twitches.

So much is at stake. “If you need anything, you need only ask.”

Lips pursed, Melinoë gives a slight nod. “Yes, but you’re the guest here. I should extend that courtesy to you.”

I wet my lips, the edges of my mind softening. “I don’t have anything to request." When she searches my face, I wonder what she finds.

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Melinoë leaves me alone. I eat the rest of my food by myself, though the cold, hard lump in my stomach ruins my appetite.