sport. They would tell him of his love’s transformation, crack his face like an egg and laugh at what ran out.
But before they could say anything, my father was there, striding over to pull him aside.
My cousins sank back on sour elbows. Spoilsport Helios, ruining their fun. No matter, Perse would get it out of him later, or Selene. They lifted their goblets and went back to their pleasures.
I followed after Glaucos. I do not know how I dared, except that all my mind was filled up with a gray wash like churning waves. I stood outside the room where my father had drawn them.
I heard Glaucos’ low voice: “Can she not be changed back?”
Every god-born knows that answer from their swaddles. “No,” my father said. “No god may undo what is done by the Fates or another god. Yet these halls have a thousand beauties, each ripe as the next. Look to them instead.”
I waited. I still hoped Glaucos would think of me. I would have married him in a moment. But I found myself hoping for another thing too, which I would not have believed the day before: that he would weep all the salt in his veins for Scylla’s return, holding fast to her as his one, true love.
“I understand,” Glaucos said. “It is a shame, but as you say there are others.”
A soft metal ping rang out. He was flicking the tines of his trident. “Nereus’ youngest is fair,” he said. “What is her name? Thetis?”
My father clicked his tongue. “Too salted for my taste.”
“Well,” Glaucos said. “Thank you for your excellent counsel. I will look to it.”
They walked right by me. My father took his golden place beside my grandfather. Glaucos made his way to the purple couches. He looked up at something a river-god said and laughed. It is the last memory I have of his face, his teeth bright as pearls in the torchlight, his skin stained blue.
In years to come, he would take my father’s advice indeed. He lay with a thousand nymphs, siring children with green hair and tails, well loved by fishermen, for often they filled their nets. I would see them sometimes, sporting like dolphins in the deepest crests. They never came in to shore.
The black river slid along its banks. The pale flowers nodded on their stems. I was blind to all of it. One by one my hopes were dropping away. I would share no eternity with Glaucos. We would have no marriage. We would never lie in those woods. His love for me was drowned and gone.
Nymphs and gods flowed past, their gossip drifting in the fragrant, torch-lit air. Their faces were the same as always, vivid and glowing, but they seemed suddenly alien. Their strings of jewels clacked loud as bird-bills, their red mouths stretched wide around their laughter. Somewhere Glaucos laughed among them, but I could not pick his voice out from the throng.
Not all gods need be the same.
My face had begun to burn. It was not pain, not exactly, but a stinging that went on and on. I pressed my fingers to my cheeks. How long had it been since I’d thought of Prometheus? A vision of him rose before me now: his torn back and steady face, his dark eyes encompassing everything.
Prometheus had not cried out as the blows fell, though he had grown so covered in blood that he’d looked like a statue dipped in gold. And all the while, the gods had watched, their attention bright as lightning. They would have relished a turn with the Fury’s whip, given the chance.
I was not like them.
Are you not? The voice was my uncle’s, resonant and deep. Then you must think, Circe. What would they not do?
My father’s chair was draped with the skins of pure-black lambs. I knelt by their dangling necks.
“Father,” I said, “it was I who made Scylla a monster.”
All around me, voices dropped. I cannot say if the very furthest couches looked, if Glaucos looked, but all my uncles did, snapped up from their drowsy conversation. I felt a sharp joy. For the first time in my life, I wanted their eyes.
“I used wicked pharmaka to make Glaucos a god, and then I changed Scylla. I was jealous of his love for her and wanted to make her ugly. I did it selfishly, in bitter heart, and I would bear the consequence.”
“Pharmaka,” my father said.
“Yes. The yellow flowers that grow from Kronos’ spilled blood and turn creatures