Warily, I head downstairs, opening the front door. The wind tickles my face, and the garden swayed. I look to my left.

Under a tall cypress is a little red wicker table and chairs. There Melinoë sits with someone else, a woman. Stola gray, face lightly lined. Her hair is the color of hay, eyes rimmed pink, belly swollen.

Across the table, Melinoë holds her hand, speaking in a calm, even tone. In the sunlight, silver streaks the witch-goddess’ hair almost gold.

“Thank you, thank you,” the woman says, voice ragged. “Ever since my husband, the—I’ve been so terribly worried, but now, at least I know we’ll make it.”

The woman’s grief ripples through the air in waves. A sharp pang prickle in my chest. My eyes sting. Not noticing me, the woman stands shakily and walks away into the trees.

I approach cautiously, not speaking until Melinoë, at first staring into the distance, acknowledges me with a guarded look. “Should she go alone in the swamp?”

She replies, “Those who live here know this land well. She’ll be fine. Besides, if she is ever lost, the hounds will guide her home.”

I startle. “She isn't frightened by them?” The underhounds, the alligators, all sprawled out here. The ghosts, too. They gave the impression this place was meant to be secret.

“Nay."Melinoë sets her back straight against her chair. "They look different to mortals than they do to us.”

By the trees, the woman is gone. “May I ask why she was here?”

She folds her hands in her lap. “Sometimes women come for assistance. She found me while I was collecting milkweed.” Milkweed, yes, I know that; it grows in the boggier parts of the island. That explains the waft of vanilla in the air.

“And you help them?" I ask her. "I didn’t think . . .”

“Didn’t think someone like me would help a woman in need,” Melinoë finishes coolly.

I sit where the woman was. The chair is hard against my spine. “I hope, I don’t mean to be so forward.”

Melinoë replies plainly, “I think you do.”

I swallow thickly. “I just—how do you get used to this decay? The death.”

“In the Underworld?”

I survey the pale outlines of ghosts in the air, along the mossy manor walls.

Melinoë gestures in a wide arc. “The flowers, the grass. I did it all myself from the bones of the beasts that came long before. Not death. Life." She pauses as she withdraws her hand. "Well, not only death.”

We sit in silence. The sun hangs high above us, a distant promise.

Melinoë asks me, “May I ask what disagreement you had with your parents?” I wonder what possessed her to ask, whether this is a trap. Before, a year ago, I might've never let such distrustful thoughts slip into my head.

I force my words to be slow and deliberate. “Only if you tell me the one you had with yours.”

She makes a noise, hissing through her teeth. For a second, I thought she’d refuse to speak at all. “Very well, then. It’s nothing.”

“What was it?” I ask softly, having to keep herself from reaching out and trying to offer a comforting hand. My distaste of her coldness sloshes uncomfortably with my pity. How lonely she must be.

Except, as I've learned, not as alone as I thought.

She unflinchingly meets my eyes. “I suppose it’s little to anyone else. We had a disagreement about how far my duties could go. I was tired of being confined to either languishing in the Underworld—being dismissed and forgotten—or only roaming at night. That was the length of it, so I left and forged my own territory. The ghosts aren’t all especially hospitable, but they have a home.” Melinoë tilts her head. “And the people who know of the strange witch in the wilds, they have someone they can trust, too.”

Picking herbs, giving advice. I shift in my seat. “Is that all you do here?”

All? What have I, the alleged empath, done to help others? I hide. Hide, so I don’t fall apart. Run. If I had a chance to help, I might cry and never stop.

The pain coursing through me would be too much. It's to ignore others’ pain while I've spent centuries sheltered from suffering. But while some might maintain a balance between witnessing suffering and caring for themselves, so they don't drown, I don't know how. Always too much.

Empath. What a silly word. There's no use for empathy if I'm always doing it at a distance. Compassion without action isn't compassion at all. But here I am.

A light flits across her eyes. In the sun, half of her is washed out. “There’s nothing else to do of any worth but find a practical application of my skills.” Her clear, logical mindset reminds me of how aloof and clinical Father can be when describing his work. So disaffected for a topic as fraught as love. And heartbreak. She was glad Mother had joined him in his work.

Many think love is chaotic, but it can be coldly rational and as coldly executed.

I look at my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry for what happened with your parents. I know it’s difficult.” I hate my lies. All my life, despite the hardships it took for them to be together, my parents were kind and giving. They miss me, I'm sure; I miss them.

Don’t feel guilty. Think of those two men. Adonis, treated like a plaything by two goddesses and now imprisoned. Think of what she’s capable of.

Billions of lives could be lost if there was a war against Olympus, Zeus had told me.

But I'm not so sure my suspicions are right. Melinoë, looking off, doesn't look like a threat. She makes a noise in her throat. “I suppose this house of orphans could be far worse.”

“Orphans?” I ask.

Eyes still on where the estate land meets the swamp trees, the expression Melinoë grants me is like a smile, but thin and bitter. Maybe the goddess of ghosts, with the magic sigils lining her hands and wrists, sees things I don't.

“Some of us don’t belong in the affairs of the gods,” Melinoë says.

“Is that your philosophy?” I ask her. For her sake, I hope she's telling the truth.

She raises her chin. I said she's washed out, part of her, but no. The sun harshens her ghostly side. She almost glows. “You ask many questions.”

And you wouldn’t like some of them. I shrug. “There is little else to do.”

Melinoë stares down at the table and moves her hand sideways, and then there are two steaming cups of tea on the wicker table. “You could help me pick the herbs.”

“I could, though I wouldn’t be able to identify many of them.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Is that . . . humor in her voice? Gods, she mustn't be so charming.

“What’s your favorite season?” I ask her out of nowhere.

Melinoë arches a brow. The sunlight was buzzing. “Why?”

“I imagine your mother would be gone half the year.”

“Indeed, and it made little difference. I kept to my little cave. The Underworld is vast. As you might imagine, since you haven't seen much outside your island, the Underworld changes little during the year.”

My mask slips. A little tersely, I reply, “There’s no need to be condescending.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I lived on an island. I don’t know how a completely different place works.”

Quiet passes. My nails dig into my palms. Perhaps I've ruined everything.

Then: “Autumn.”

I'm surprised she answered at all. “Oh. Why?”

She purses her lips in thought. “It’s beautiful.”

Six months away. “Oh, I thought . . .” I thought Melinoe would prefer winter. Or that she'd find beautiful things frivolous. "That's when your mother comes home, too, isn't it?"

"Yes." Melinoë clears her throat, not elaborating on that point. “Would you like that tea? Miss Honey didn’t drink any.”

I look next to my elbow, at the porcelain cup of scarlet tea. Hesitantly, I pick up the cup with both hands.

“Don’t be so cautious,” she says dryly, “I haven’t poisoned this one.”

“Oh, how reassuring,” I quip, and she takes a sip. A little tart. I wish it was wine. She swallows and sets down the cup.

“Not to your tastes,” Melinoë states, expression plain.

Am I that transparent? There's something to the sardonic edge of her voice that makes me want to lean in. We are by no means friends, but any humor eases the humid, buzzing air. Makes this all go quicker. Easier.

Does it?

Fluidly, I stand. “Thank you for the tea and the talk.”

“Of course.” Melinoë isn’t looking at me but the trees, the curtains of moss.

***

I wake to the ghostly song of cicadas, the world dark around me.

My hair's in my face, and with a huff, I push it away. I dreamed of soft kisses, of grass, leaves, and pollen in my hair. An eternal summer.

I'm aroused, but more than anything, I'm sad. A simple word. No word for the longing in my heart comes to mind.

Part of me wonders if I should go see those two men, ask them what happened to them, help them escape, report to Zeus.

But my mind's fuzzy tonight, and I suspect Melinoë will be waiting for me. If she doesn't already know my intentions, well. Night would be the most expected time for me to explore the forbidden part of the manor.

And perhaps, I'm stalling. I don't want to talk to Zeus just yet. And I don’t know the full picture or Melinoë’s motives.

I don’t even know if Adonis and the other man need help. They didn’t sound like they were in distress, and yet they must be if they're here. Stuck, missing old pleasures.

Adonis had been the pet of both Grandmother and Persephone. He could choose either of their palaces to stay in. To be in this moldering, grave place, as gilded as it is, there has to be some coercion.

Right?

And yet, there's a coziness and a sense of being away from pressing concerns. Darkness has its comforts. I'm hidden. As if I can stay for a thousand years, and the manor will stay the same. As if I can leave and return, and it’ll be the same. Waiting for me.

I'm not sure of anything, and I don’t want to act too soon. If I free them, where could we go?

With my nightgown trailing the floor, I glide to the window and open it. I feel free, my heart quick and hot.

I can go anywhere now. Zeus’ influence is far away. Hand on the cool glass, I open the window, and night air caresses my cheeks. Fireflies dance languidly and alligator and ghost eyes gleam.

Without much doubt, I let herself plummet to the ground, bare feet hitting red clay. I race past the estate boundaries, and none of the alligators, dogs or ghosts pay me any mind. The air sings.

I venture deeper into the trees, and as the ground grows soft, I'm not worried about who might catch me.

A rustling to my left. I haven’t been here long, so I can’t say I'm not afraid of the ghosts and many beasts with teeth. And sometimes, the branches shiver and look like dark antlers.

Melinoë likely wouldn’t be frightened; maybe the swamp is scared of her.

I am a goddess, too, in my own right.

What right that is, I don’t know. I don’t know what gives my soul the right to be elevated over others. Mother was mortal once, though she ate ambrosia and became immortal when she had me in her womb.

Humming a few feet away. I step forward, careful not to trip on roots, and I lean against a cypress.

Though it's dark, in the pale moonlight I see a naiad by a small, muddy pond. She sits on a protruding rock with her legs folded under her. Her hair's long, thick, and tangled, falling past her shoulders; she wears water itself, ever-moving, and she's thin and wiry.

Making myself known, I step into the silver wash of light, and the naiad raises her head.

“Ah,” the naiad says, voice light. Naiads are always so friendly. At home, the naiads and nymphs were always welcoming and wreathed daisies in my hair and kissed my lips, so I could taste honeysuckle. “What brings you here? I thought you were the witch-goddess.”

“The witch-goddess?” I repeat.

“Yes. She once traveled here often with her dogs, but now she’s more reticent than ever before.”

“Ah,” Hedone said. “Why do you think that is?”

She blinks. “I’m not certain. She doesn’t disturb any of us here in the swamp, so we don’t disturb her.”

“What do you think of her?”

The naiad tilts her head. “She’s rather quiet and odd-looking, but she leaves us alone. And may I ask, why are you in the wilderness at this hour?”

Hedone takes a deep breath. “I suppose I needed to clear my head.”

The naiad stands, her legs thin, the water surrounding her shuddering as she traipses over to me, curiosity in her eyes. “I’m not sure if this is the place for that.”

I frown in thought. “Why?”

“This is a place of history and songs.” The naiad sways her arms by her sides. “There are many, many bones.”

I shake her head. “I don’t want any bones. Or death. I only want peace.” I dare not say more.

I cannot say: I only want to forget and disappear.

Zeus might hear, and he'll grow jealous of the void.

Crickets chirp and frogs bellow deep as the naiad comes very close, and I feel a lonely longing, a tug in my chest. Closing in on escape with the golden thread. Seeking an escape, an embrace at the end of despair.

With the naiad right there, I become conscious of the rise and fall of the woman’s chest and of my own hitched breathing. The other woman looks up at me, mouth parted. I lean forward.

The kiss is gentle, pliant, but the naiad opens her mouth, and it deepens. A rush floods my limbs. The naiad’s mouth tastes of salt, and everything smells of damp earth.

It's like when I was still a maiden, grown and wandering, and I went out to the meadows where a creek went through, and the nymphs showed me pleasure for the first time.

I’d been a fledgling. For a goddess, anyhow. There was a time I resented how Mother and Father didn’t let me go to Olympus or see the world. Father was more pragmatic, thinking his daughter would need to face the world one day. Mother had been more adamant that I should stay with them.

Now, I understand why, too late. Indeed, too late for me to go back to a peaceful life. My world's now shaped by Zeus’ mercy or wrath. His golden hands. I’ll have to tell Mother how right she was, how grateful I am for what peace I've lost.

As if she needs me to infest her home with my troubles.

The naiad draws me to the ground. Like before in the meadows by my home, I don’t mind the leaves and grass in my hair.