Chapter 6 #2
I think of last night’s words and resentment shakes me out until I stand tall.
Just a face. Those are my sentiments, not hers.
She must believe that it is the greatest face in the world.
The best of all the faces. This face is the future of everything, and she, spoiled by Poseidon’s praise, flighty and loose with her two ugly faces, could never understand.
How easy it is for her to deride me. Beauty draws eyes, it attracts jealousy and wanting and rage like flames attract moths, but these moths are giant, thrashing things capable of snuffing me out.
I must sidestep Amphitrite’s jealous gaze, dodge the reaching hands of men, I must not stumble into the light and yet I must also be the light and it is a light I did not choose – and yet now here it is, it is mine, it is swimming up the river of my kin towards me.
I fear that it is too bright. But it does not matter. The path is cleaved before me.
She rises from the river. It does not reject her, she belongs to some part of it, but I can feel the foreignness of her.
The water does not cling to her as it does us, running in rivulets across our skin, never wishing to leave.
She is immediately dry, crystals leaving glittering trails.
Yesterday, standing next to the strange washes of her sister and master, she had seemed as rich in pigment as shining brass lanterns.
But here she seems as though she has spent too long away from the sun.
The river breathes a sigh of relief when she is clear, and we say nothing to each other in the exhale.
I had been ready with sharp pincers to bite, but she is better at this game than me.
So much better that she does not seem as though she is playing.
Her expression is cool, almost bored, her lip twisted in mild contempt.
She says, ‘You wore silver.’ Here, away from the indomitable will of the sea god, I can see that she really is not much older than me at all.
There are ways of telling, a kind of glimmering control that nymphs gain as they age, a depth to the glow of their ichor.
She does not have this at all; she is young in her immortality.
‘So?’ I say.
‘Silver is rare in these lands.’
‘I am a princess.’
She makes a noise in her throat, and I feel immediately embarrassed. I hear the words as she must have heard them, petulant and thin, I am a princess.
‘Silver is prized by my lord.’
I swallow. ‘The Fates must wish our union, then.’ The words are bitter on my tongue.
That noise again. ‘I believed the Fates to be three crones sharing an eye. Not a queen on a throne dressed in red and gold.’
I blink at her implication. I think of my mother, teaching me to wear modesty as an accessory and then declaring me to be insultingly beautiful. I think of her careful instructions, her cool mask, the loud challenge of her voice.
I scowl. ‘My mother declared me beautiful because she believes me to be beautiful. Perhaps your mother only compliments you for political strategy.’
Her jaw sets and her eyes glint, jet catching the sun and holding it fast. ‘When my mother compliments me, she speaks of my strength and speed and quick wit. What can anyone say of you beyond the shape of your nose?’
She terrifies me. But there is something else there too, something I have not felt before. It is sharp, forked like a tongue or lightning. It thrills me.
‘No one would have very much to say of your nose. It is utterly unremarkable, just like the rest of your appearance.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Not only is your face all anyone can discuss, but apparently faces are all you can discuss. Gods. How tiresome this shall be.’
‘I was not aware that I was supposed to be your entertainment.’ I lift my chin, in defiance of her contempt and my own and speak with the voice of my mother. ‘I will be your queen.’
‘Will you, indeed? Well. We shall see. Though I’d advise you not to scrunch your face like that. Denying you and granting my sister her rightful crown will be all too easy if you perpetually look as though you are inhaling shit.’
I thrill again at her coarse language, my eyes widening, and she scoffs heartily. ‘Gods! Can your sensitive ears not withstand a little profanity, princess? I shall pray to Artemis to speed along your bleeding, so that I might return to my own affairs.’
I realize the thrilling thing is hatred, an altogether new kind of hatred for me.
It is not the hatred I feel for my father, tinged with a forced kind of love.
It is not the hatred I feel for his drunk, leering friends, the ones who have no history of attempting to hurt me but are too reminiscent of that nauseating night all the same.
No, this is closer to the way I feel when the nobles’ daughters whisper about me behind their hands.
It is a hatred born out of understanding; I can see that if I were one of them, I might whisper and mock too, might keep my distance.
This hatred is wholehearted and blazing and outweighs the fear. It strengthens me. My pincers return.
‘Really? The sea god made it quite clear you have nothing more interesting to do. Embarrassing really. The only one of your kind, and yet still surplus.’
Her fists clench. I wonder wildly if I could antagonize her into striking me or if she is forbidden from doing so by the oath that binds her to her master.
I see her breathe deeply. I am giddy with our mutual dislike.
It is freeing, this loathing. I do not have to smile and say pretty things.
I may scowl! I may be creative in my harsh words!
She may throw barbs back and yet she can do no more than this.
Something lightens my chest, though my heart beats as if I am dancing.
‘My Lord Poseidon says I am to meet you each morning on these banks and watch you until you retreat to bed.’ She grinds it out through gritted teeth. ‘He says we are to take our meals together and I am to be there in all your lessons. I am to let him know when you bleed.’
I consider her words and relish my sardonic tone.
‘Oh? You are not to watch me when I sleep? I’d have thought your master would not want me out of your sight lest I use pharmaka.
’ I say it derisively. Whatever Amphitrite and the Nereids might believe, I have never known my grandmother to truck with spells and potions.
It is not her way at all. I would not put it past my mother but she is, of course, mortal.
The Cetus hesitates, weighing her words. ‘I do not think my lord believes you would be so stupid as to deceive him. Or that you would attempt to break the oath.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘It is a kind of assertion, a reiteration. He wants your family to know that he is always watching. That they may have the protection of a couple of small freshwater gods, but as all rivers return to the sea, so must you all turn to him.’
‘Did he tell you to say that?’
‘Yes.’
I consider her a moment. She reciprocates. I feel my face twisted similarly to hers, intense in dislike. Abruptly, I turn on my heel, striding for the avenue. ‘Come, then. My parents should know of your master’s plans.’
I do not look to see if she is following, though I know she is.
I can feel her behind me as prey is aware of a predator.
She meets my steps as we reach the oranges and I observe her from the corner of my eye.
She sidesteps the shadow and I am forcibly reminded of my mother in the way she seems to bask in the warmth and proximity of the sun.
Even this close I cannot discern her pupils, the heavy dark of her eyes alighting on the alabaster shapes of my ancestors.
She does not say anything. Does she know these stories too?
They are hers as much as they are mine, more perhaps.
Her limbs are fluid in their movement, a flowing liquid gold; we are similarly descended but we are sand and stardust. How dare she come here, to my palace, and lord her feral glory over me, a princess of silt?
I stalk through the halls, yet she keeps pace easily.
This angers me too. How dare she, a water creature, be so quick and graceful on land?
She trails a toe through the pool in the central court and the fish, my friends, traitors that they are, flock towards her brief submersion.
She does this swiftly, barely falling behind me, and I work to straighten my scowl before we reach my mother.
I could not bear to be chastised for lining my forehead in front of my hostile new companion.
We reach the throne room. My parents are not surprised by my arrival and I feel somewhat foolish. As though it was anticipated that I would immediately come running, seeking the comfort of my mother’s skirts. Be a little queen.
‘Mama. Father. I have brought the Nereid, the Cetus, to speak with you. She brings word from her master, my future husband, Lord Poseidon.’
Yes. My future husband. Remember it, nymph. One day, you will bow to me.
‘Speak, nymph, and be welcome.’ My father is congenial. He sees her as the key to a treasure trove.
‘It is Ceto, not Cetus. Cetus is what some call my other shape.’
‘You are one and the same, no? Surely the name matters little.’ My mother is dismissive. She knows the nymph cannot lie, so she does not need to bother with kindness.
‘You are Cassiopeia and Queen and Mother. Surely it matters which title is used when and by whom? I come before you in legs and hair, I am Ceto.’