Ghost Queen in the House of Love

5. Hedone

I check the washroom for ghosts, and thankfully, it's empty. Warming the smoothed rocks in the stone furnace, right in the corner of the room, I use a heavy basin to fill a large, lion-clawed tub by setting it on top of the furnace and waiting for steam to rise. I wonder if the goddess of ghosts warms her water like this. Or if her magic makes washing herself much more convenient.

Imagine having the power to bring ghosts to the solid earth but not enough to fill the tubs automatically with hot water, should someone wish it. With ideas this brilliant, I should've been born to witch-goddesses. Hot baths for everyone.

That takes the longest, though peeling my clothes off myself isn't easy. I'm far used to the kind and clever nymphs and naiads of the island meadows and creeks assisting me, their chitons gold and scarlet in the sunlight. That is, those who wore clothes at all. Modesty wasn't much of a concern, nor was nudity painted in a shameful and lurid brush.

After a long bath, the water long cooled, I look in the wardrobe and find a cream-colored chemise. When I put it on, it's a little too much in the sleeves, but it fits well enough.

I consider sneaking about, but I suspect Melinoë doesn't sleep at night. Gods don't need to rest, though it's refreshing. But the stories say the goddess of ghosts travels at night; when she was under Hades and Persephone's jurisdiction, she was not allowed to haunt the earth during the day.

Before I retire, I place my phial, filled with inky darkness, in one of the pillowcases. Best to keep it close.

I sleep well under the silken crimson sheets. And dream of a garden with hemlock and pomegranates. One fruit is split open and swollen, bursting with red juice and shining in the golden sunlight.

But when I try to pinch off a seed to eat it, red smears my fingers, becomes paste that clings to my skin. No matter how much I attempt to put the seeds to my lips to taste them, they stain my skin, seep into my ichor. I smell and taste smoke, sulfur, and roses.

Somewhere, hounds bark.

When I wake up, the sunlight that streams through the burgundy curtains is gray. Outside, birds warble, and a constant knocking—a woodpecker? Rubbing my eyes and taking in the room, reality slowly creeps back into my head.

I have a mission. Melinoë has secrets, and I must expose them.

More than anything, I want to know what's in the west wing. I must investigate somehow. Any secrets she has, I must uncover.

My family's continued peace counts on it.

Stretching, I listen. Beyond the birds, nothing. No footsteps or whispers. At least, not at first. When my eyes are still a little blurry, I rub them.

When I look out the window while brushing my hair, I toss the curtains aside a tad dramatically. No ghost-eyes greet me, nothing but a bluejay. I wonder where the ghosts go during the day—in the cellar, in cabinets, in the mirrors.

I have a better look at the garden. Though I can't name many of the flowers, there are many hues of gold, orange, and red. Some of the trees bloom white and pink petals and walnut and crab apple trees stipple the dark ground. Ah, there's a specter. The faint form of a woman with silvery hair in the sunlight, under the walnut tree; she shifts her chin to look at me, eerie blue gaze curious.

I look away. Some of the crab apples have fallen, small and green. Alligators snake around the trees, lazily resting in the shade. A few have the fruits in their daggered mouths, quite content. For alligators.

A soft song in the air, and I realize in horror, on the trees hang wind chimes made of bone, disturbed by the light breeze. It unsettled me, all the bones, ghosts, and teeth, so I fully turn away.