Medea’s own children without a mother, two sons left each day to scratch at the dirt and wait, slaves too young yet to be of use, fattened for a future they can’t possibly believe.

Asteropeia’s face wet from the heat, beading, hair soaked, and so beautiful. She does not want a suitor. She wants Hekate.

Find something I can give to my father, she tells Medea. Something that will be enough. Something to release me.

Night after night of this, Medea silent, staring into broth and stew, watching scum on the surface for signs. Waiting for chunks of meat tumbling in darkness and brought to the surface to breach and leer and be devoured again. Her sons will be old enough soon, so she must find something.

She would look also to the stars, but Evadne has placed Medea’s cauldron in a small stone room with a low ceiling and one tiny window. Wood for fuel stacked along the walls, goats and sheep led in bawling, crowding into the corners, trying to escape flame. Medea made butcher and fire keeper and cook. For her, the rest of the world has nearly ceased to exist. A few hours in the final darkness of each night to sleep, to hold Jason and her sons and try to remember, then she returns for all the long day and most of the night and forgets again.

Asteropeia’s skin so soft even wet, faint down of her neck and even her eyebrows Medea would like to lick. Her mouth opens whenever Asteropeia comes near, and she wants to devour. Young skin, no line or crease or slack, lit by some other heat, a fullness to it.

Condemned to burning, this room of fire radiating back from every wall, so Medea no longer wears clothing, only her own sweat, and Asteropeia, too, stands naked beside her, shadowed curves and fire skin flickering, shapes across her belly and breasts and neck. Medea watches here too, uses her hand to trace image, and Asteropeia stands without moving, closes her eyes and memorizes.

Forms of what will be, Medea says. Shape in shadow, in pulse. Asteropeia listens. Medea’s hand sliding down to hold a breast with stretched hand, pulling downward as if this bulb could be planted.

Youth, Medea says. All you have to offer is youth.

Asteropeia’s lips parted, eyes closed, swaying where she stands. Medea’s hand grasping impossible flesh. Your father can be made young. We can rejuvenate him. That’s the gift that will set you free.

Asteropeia’s eyes open. You can do that?

Bring another of your sisters, and bring an old ram. Tomorrow night. We must hurry, before the moon changes. I will make this ram young, and then we’ll do the same for your father.

Joy pure and simple in Asteropeia, clinging to Medea now, soft breast against breast, and Medea’s mouth on her neck, breathing in desire, unbearable.