Alcestis of every scent from every land, cinnamon and musk and oils Medea cannot recognize, searching always for something behind these fainter and constant that could be called Alcestis, some breath or other trace, and Medea knows she discovered this already from the first moment but somehow can never remember it or give it shape. Polluted by every stronger scent in layer after layer. Suitors are being brought to her, endless suitors, and all that she has worn is enough for a hundred women, finest linen and smoother, lighter cloth Medea has never known, every pattern and color. Most is from Egypt. Without Egypt, every land would remain in barbarity. Every figure made in clay by an Iolcan or Mycenaean or Korinthian is Egyptian, every pattern drawn, the cut of each cloth, until Medea wonders whether there is anything at all that can be called Iolcan.

Alcestis most elusive of gods, not wanting a husband, able to wait centuries. Never able to say no but never saying yes. Becoming nothing, and so every man must want her. She will never contradict any idea of her. She is without limit. She has found some other world to dwell in and no longer feels the roughness of this one, and Medea must find this also. Each moment of slavery become nothing.

Medea is beaten every few days, whether she does her work or not. At first, she worked harder, or refused to work, but now she understands why she is beaten, because the hand holding the stick or the leather strap is also the hand of a slave. Pleasure and self-hate and a refusal impossible marked by each sting, recorded.

What she returns to is scent, buries herself in what has been soiled and discarded, thrilled most by Amphinome and Evadne. Old enough almost for suitors, waiting their turn, impatient, tearing at garments, spilling and breaking.

The younger daughters impossible to separate. Peisidike, Pelopia, Hippothoe, Antinoe, Antiope, Asteropeia. Grimy play, reckless, dirt and leaves without perfumes or oils, but at least two of them are almost the age of Amphinome and Evadne, larger clothing, the beginning of scent, and Medea doesn’t know who these two might be. No one will speak with her. Outcast among slaves, priestess of darkness feared and hated and beaten, foreign barbarian.

Some agreement among slaves and guards, everyone waiting for her to break and then what? What do they believe will be revealed? What do they think she could possibly be hiding? Nute and Hekate far away. Jason knows there is no scorpion in his chest. She has lost all power.