“I think it was the sort of thing your father liked to say, and truth had nothing to do with it. After all, your mother liked him.”
His eyes had found mine. “And so did you.”
“I do not claim to be good.”
“You liked him, though. Despite all of it.”
There was a challenge in his voice. I found myself choosing my words carefully. “I did not see the worst of him. Even at his best he was not an easy man. But he was a friend to me in a time when I needed one.”
“It is strange to think of a goddess needing friends.”
“All creatures that are not mad need them.”
“I think he got the better bargain.”
“I did turn his men to pigs.”
He did not smile. He was like an arrow shooting to the end of its arc. “All these gods, all these mortals who aided him. Men talk of his wiles. His true talent was in how well he could take from others.”
“There are many who would be glad for such a gift,” I said.
“I am not one.” He set down his cup. “I will tax you no further, Lady Circe. I am grateful for the truth of these stories. There are few who have taken such pains with me.”
I did not answer him. Something had begun prickling at me, lifting the hairs on my neck.
“Why are you here?” I said.
He blinked. “I told you, we had to leave Ithaca.”
“Yes,” I said. “But why come here?”
He spoke slowly, like a man coming back from a dream. “I think it was my mother’s idea.”
“Why?”
A flush rose on his cheek. “As I have said, she does not share confidences with me.”
No one can guess what my mother is doing until it is done.
He turned and passed into the hall’s darkness. A moment later, I heard the soft sound of his door closing.
The cold air seemed to rush through the cracks of the walls and pin me to my seat. I had been a fool. I should have held her over the cliff that first day and shaken the truth out of her. I remembered now how carefully she had asked after my spell, the one that could stop gods. Even Olympians.
I did not go to her room, rip the door from its hinge. I burned at my window. The sill creaked under my fingers. There were hours till dawn, but hours were nothing to me. I watched the stars outside dim and the island emerge, blade by blade, into the light. The air had changed again and the sky had veiled itself. Another storm. The cypress boughs hissed in the air.
I heard them wake. My son first, then Penelope, and last Telemachus, who had gone to bed so late. One by one they came into the hall, and I felt them pause as they saw me at the window, like rabbits checking at the hawk’s shadow. The table was bare, no breakfast laid. My son hurried to the kitchen to clatter plates. I liked feeling their silent glances at my back. My son urged them to eat, his words heavy with apology. I could imagine the speaking looks he was giving them: I’m sorry about my mother. Sometimes she is like this.
“Telegonus,” I said, “the sty needs fixing and a storm comes. You will attend to it.”
He cleared his throat. “I will, Mother.”
“Your brother can help you.”
Another silence, while they exchanged their glances.
“I do not mind,” Telemachus said, mildly.
A few more sounds of plates and benches. At last, the door closed behind them.
I turned. “You take me for a fool. A dupe to be led by the nose. Asking so sweetly about my spell. Tell me which of the gods pursues you. Whose wrath have you brought upon my head?”
She was seated at my loom. Her lap was full of raw, black wool. On the floor beside her lay a spindle and an ivory distaff, tipped with silver.
“My son does not know,” she said. “He is not to blame.”
“That is obvious. I can spot the spider in her web.”
She nodded. “I confess that I have done what you say. I did it knowingly. I could claim that I thought because you are a goddess and a witch that the trouble to you would not be much. But it would be a lie. I know more of the gods than that.”
Her calmness enraged me. “Is that all? I know what I have done and will brazen it out? Last