all the wonders of our lands.”
I smiled to hear him call me sister, to speak of those old dreams. “I wish I could see it.”
He said nothing. He was a magician who could break the teeth of snakes, tear up oaks by their roots. He did not need me.
“Do you have Daedalus too?”
He made a face. “No, Pasiphaë has him trapped. Perhaps in time. I have a giant fleece made of gold, though, and half a dozen dragons.”
I did not have to draw his stories out of him. They burst forth, the spells and charms he cast, the beasts he summoned, the herbs he cut by moonlight and brewed into miracles. Each tale was more outlandish than the last, thunder leaping to his fingertips, lambs cooked and born again from their charred bones.
“What was it you spoke when you healed my skin?”
“A word of power.”
“Will you teach it to me?”
“Sorcery cannot be taught. You find it yourself, or you do not.”
I thought of the humming I had heard when I touched those flowers, the eerie knowledge that had glided through me.
“How long have you known you could do such things?”
“Since I was born,” he said. “But I had to wait until I was out from Father’s eye.”
All those years beside me, and he had said nothing. I opened my mouth to demand: how could you not tell me? But this new Aeëtes in his vivid robes was too unnerving.
“Were you not afraid,” I said, “that Father would be angry?”
“No. I was not fool enough to try to humiliate him in front of everyone.” He lifted his eyebrows at me, and I flushed. “Anyway, he is eager to imagine how such strength may be used to his benefit. His worry is over Zeus. He must paint us just right: that we are threat enough that Zeus should think twice, but not so much that he is forced to act.”
My brother, who had always seen into the cracks of the world.
“What if the Olympians try to take your spells from you?”
He smiled. “I think they cannot, whatever they try. As I said, pharmakeia is not bound by the usual limits of gods.”
I looked down at my hands and tried to imagine them weaving a spell to shake the world. But the certainty I had felt when I dripped the sap into Glaucos’ mouth and tainted Scylla’s cove, I could not seem to find anymore. Perhaps, I thought, if I could touch those flowers again. But I was not allowed to leave until my father spoke to Zeus.
“And…you think I can work such wonders as you do?”
“No,” my brother said. “I am the strongest of the four of us. But you do show a taste for transformation.”
“That was only the flowers,” I said. “They grant creatures their truest forms.”
His turned his philosopher’s eye on me. “You do not think it convenient that their truest forms should happen to be your desires?”
I stared at him. “I did not desire to make Scylla a monster. I only meant to reveal the ugliness within her.”
“And you believe that’s what was truly in her? A six-headed slavering horror?”
My face was stinging. “Why not? You did not know her. She was very cruel.”
He laughed. “Oh, Circe. She was a painted back-hall slattern same as the rest. If you will argue one of the greatest monsters of our age was hiding within her, then you are more of a fool than I thought.”
“I do not think anyone can say what is in someone else.”
He rolled his eyes and poured himself another cup. “What I think,” he said, “is that Scylla has escaped the punishment you intended for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think. What would an ugly nymph do in our halls? What is the worth of her life?”
It was like the old days, him asking, and me without answers. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. It’s why it would have been a good punishment. Even the most beautiful nymph is largely useless, and an ugly one would be nothing, less than nothing. She would never marry or produce children. She would be a burden to her family, a stain upon the face of the world. She would live in the shadows, scorned and reviled. But a monster,” he said, “she always has a place. She may have all the glory her teeth can snatch. She will not be loved for it, but she will not be constrained either. So whatever foolish sorrow you harbor, forget it. I think it may