Stone that smells of salt. Dank dust and all that is hidden in every place, dried water of every birth given in this room, shadow and scent of all who came before. Kreon and Jason forget. They think they are the first to live. They think the world is not old. Glauce, too, must think hers is the first soft flesh to rise.

Please, Medea says. You know it’s not in my nature to beg. But let me have some time to arrange for my children. Banishment to me is nothing, but I must take care of my children. You are a father. You know that children must come first.

She waits, and she does not rise. Cool stone, tilt of it, Kreon standing in the air above her, unreachable. She would peel away his ribs and have him walk opened, for all to see that a king is the same inside as any other man, have him walk until so much dust clings to every organ he simply stops and is not able to take another step. So many ways to kill a king, and each must be tried.

Well, Kreon says finally. Soft words. It’s not in my nature to be a tyrant. We do have to think of your children. You may have until tomorrow. I shouldn’t do this. I’m afraid of you, as everyone should be. But you can’t do anything in one day. You leave in the morning.

Medea hides her smile against stone. Stupid king. Leftovers of too many generations. Thank you, she says, in what she hopes sounds like gratitude rather than triumph.

She remains face hidden until their footsteps have gone, then she rises and calls in her slaves, three women. None dare look at her.

A dress and diadem, she says. For the princess. Gifts she can wear to bed with my husband. We have to go quickly and find the very best. And then we will make sweets for her to nibble on between rutting. If only I could be there to hand them to her and smooth the sheets and make all comfortable. One of you, bring honey and flour and water, and stones to grind the bulbs of those flowers. Bring cinnamon. Bring something to strain the liquid.

Her sons are watching her. Jason’s eyes. You will meet the princess today, she says. You will bring her sweets and gifts. Stay close to me now.

She leaves with her children and two of the slaves. Gold, she says. Bring me to the finest worker of gold.

The morning sun itself is golden, white dust of the market come alive in warmth and color. Sky brilliant blue. Clear fall day, cool and bright, last gift of Helios, as if to make amends. She may die today and never have to watch his transit again. A relief to that.