Her only reprieve the sea. Washing clothing at the shore, left alone, burning sun but when it falls beyond the hill all is softened. Gentle surge of waves over her feet. White rock cooled by wet cloth, darker rock below, sea urchins in every hollow. Fish banded yellow and blue, smaller fish like white mottled toads, pairs of eyes and all else camouflaged. Hiding, same as Medea.

She is called from her washing one evening, hurried up to the citadel. Brought to a bedroom large and lavish, walls painted like pottery, thin black figures everywhere against white. Woven cloth hanging, stone arranged in pattern on the floor. Two of Pelias’ daughters waiting with whips in their hands, and Medea is left alone with them.

You are Medea, the older one says.

Yes.

I am Evadne.

I know you, Medea says. Hating your sister Alcestis, waiting for her to leave, wanting a man. So desperate you would take any man. I can smell the stink of it in everything you wear.

Evadne fat from sloth, hair oiled black. Lie down on the floor. On your back. No clothing.

Medea strips, watching the other sister, years younger, still a child. What is your name? she asks.

Asteropeia.

Beautiful Asteropeia, Medea says. You fear Evadne, and you should fear her.

Now, slave, Evadne says.

Medea walks to the center of the room and lies down.

Hands over your head, Evadne says, and now Medea is exposed, lying naked on stone, stretched out, her belly and breasts bare.

Evadne steps close, caresses Medea with the end of the leather strap, the lightest touch, watching the leather brush over skin.

I will tell you a secret, Medea says. You will be the only ones to know. Not even Jason knows.

Evadne’s hand stops, the strap resting against Medea’s belly. Tell.

I am pregnant, Medea says.

You lie.

I am the priestess of Hekate and Nute. Nute who swallows the sun each night and gives birth to each day. Ancient god, Egyptian god. Hekate who rules all that lives in the night. And if you kill this child, you will never have your own child. One month when you bleed, the blood will not stop until you die.

Evadne’s arm quick as a snake, the whip invisible, sudden pain across Medea’s bare breasts. Medea curls and howls and sucks at the air. Pain like flame, pulse and rise and heat discovered from nothing, unbearable and then stronger still.

Call on Hekate now, Evadne says. You are no priestess.

Medea can’t speak.

Lie on your back. Arms over your head.

Medea tries to stretch out again, closes her eyes, hears the leather through air and feels the whip again across her breasts. She curls and her lungs heave, as if she is sobbing, but no sound.