Page 56 of Circe

“And now it is longer still. We sailed from Troy two years ago. Our journey back has been somewhat more difficult than I would have wished.”

“So there is no need to worry about the loom,” I said. “By now your wife will have given up on you and invented a better one herself.”

His expression remained pleasant, but I saw something shift in it. “Most likely you are right. She will have doubled our lands too, I would not be surprised.”

“And where are these lands of yours?”

“Near Argos. Cows and barley, you know.”

“My father keeps cows himself,” I said. “He favors a pure-white hide.”

“They are hard to breed true. He must husband them well.”

“Oh, he does,” I said. “He cares for nothing else.”

I was watching him. His hands were wide and calloused. He gestured with his cup now here, now there, sloshing his wine a little, but never spilling it. And never once touching it to his lips.

“I am sorry,” I said, “that my vintage is not to your liking.”

He looked down as if surprised to see the cup still in his hand. “My apologies. I’ve been so much enjoying the hospitality, I forgot.” He rapped his knuckles on his temple. “My men say I would forget my head if it weren’t on my neck. Where did you say they’ve gone again?”

I wanted to laugh. I felt giddy, but I kept my voice as even as his. “They’re in the back garden. There’s an excellent bit of shade to rest in.”

“I confess I’m in awe,” he said, “they’re never so quiet for me. You must have had quite an effect on them.”

I heard a humming, like before a spell is cast. His gaze was a honed blade. All this had been prologue. As if we were in a play, we stood.

“You have not drunk,” I said. “That is clever. But I am still a witch, and you are in my house.”

“I hope we may settle this with reason.” He had put the goblet down. He did not draw his sword, but his hand rested on the hilt.

“Weapons do not frighten me, nor the sight of my own blood.”

“You are braver than most gods then. I once saw Aphrodite leave her son to die on the field over a scratch.”

“Witches are not so delicate,” I said.

His sword hilt was hacked from ten years of battles, his scarred body braced and ready. His legs were short but stiff with muscles. My skin prickled. He was handsome, I realized.

“Tell me,” I said, “what is in that bag you keep so close at your waist?”

“An herb I found.”

“Black roots,” I said. “White flowers.”

“Just so.”

“Mortals cannot pick moly.”

“No,” he said simply. “They cannot.”

“Who was it? No, never mind, I know.” I thought of all the times Hermes had watched me harvest, pressed me about my spells. “If you had the moly, why did you not drink? He must have told you that no spell I cast could touch you.”

“He did tell me,” he said. “But I have a quirk of prudence in me that’s hard to break. The Trickster Lord, for all I am grateful to him, is not known for his reliability. Helping you turn me into a swine would be just his sort of jest.”

“Are you always so suspicious?”

“What can I say?” He held out his palms. “The world is an ugly place. We must live in it.”