Ghost Queen in the House of Love

13. Hedone

Hair mussed, I make my way back in the night without trouble. And when I crawl into bed, I doze easily. No dreams, thank Olympus.

I wake again, and the pale morning sun drifts through the half-parted curtains, illuminating the dust. In my haste, I'd left the window open, so the room is cool.

On my back, I close my eyes again and listen. Outside, birds sing in high peals, and the underhounds occasionally bark. As my fingers trace the soft velvet sheets, I listen outside my door for any footsteps. Nothing.

I deeply inhale, curl and uncurl my toes, and open my eyes. The chandelier above, with crystals dangling from it, glitters.

Sitting up, I rub my face and sigh against my palm. Predictably, I stained my stola with mud, dirt, and grass. I run a hand through my tangled hair and pad across the space to the washroom.

Slipping off my clothes, I spend more time than intended in the bath, the fragrance of sweet apples drifting through the room; it reminds me of home, the golden apple tree outside the study. I slide down, up to my chin in warm water. Watch the steam curl upward and almost fall asleep again.

A morning of moments, one by one, strung together like pearls. The bath formula froths, and all colors at once dance in the bubbles.

When I finish, I reluctantly lift myself out of the tub with both hands. Crossing into the bedroom, I find a yellow stola with sleeves that reveal the arms between jeweled clasps.

Once dressed, I venture downstairs, and more golden light and dust drift into the main hall. The iron window above the hall curves upward to a point. I admire the winding paths in the architecture, what looks like spherical lattices in the deep red-brown walls; when I first arrived at the estate, the interior seemed sharper, colder.

My heart beats fast. I want music, a good feast. Night and day from my feelings before. My first night here, I was reminded of a fretful campfire story. Now, though the place is no less secluded and dark, there's no persistent dread.

Given my quest, I can't ever be fully at ease, since time is ticking down, but I'm not as afraid. After all, though her words can be dry or blunt, Melinoë hasn't given me a reason to worry. Except for . . .

Those two men in the west wing. One of them Adonis.

Softly, I push the door, which is already cracked open. It heaves a groan. My eyes adjust to the light, and all is the same, albeit with less gloom.

Or perhaps it'd never been so sad as I thought. Robins dot the ground steps, sporting their orange bellies proudly and keeping some distance from the alligators napping under the walnut and crab apple trees.

Following the barks, I saunter with bare feet down the creaky steps, cool against my skin. Unlike before, I appreciate the curving, leafy patterns swirling on the front door, fainting glinting gold.

As the wind rakes through my hair, the cool caress of the spring air inviting, I'm being watched. Below me, Melinoë walks across the verdant yard and catches my eye.

She looks about the same, but instead of her longer dress and cloak, she wears a simple orange chiton that reaches her ankles and exposes her arms up to her slender shoulders.

An underhound pads by her side. This dog is a foot shorter than the rest, its body thick and wrinkled, hair dark and shiny.

Melinoë gestures to the hound. "Come, Penelope." She approaches the steps. With her bright dress, she looks part-fire, the queen of an old, lonely castle. I realize I'm staring.

"Good afternoon," Melinoë says, and I pause. Had I truly slept that long? Apparently so. In fairness, it was a good and restful sleep.

"Good afternoon," I say, playing it off, "Penelope's a good name."