Irritatingly, Monime seemed disinclined to drink. Demeter was forced to endure several long minutes of her stories about her fellow nymphs and how she was afraid that her favorite horse required some kind of medical treatment. The girl went on and on, seemingly without needing to draw a breath.

“And then she said—” Monime began.

“You should try the wine,” Demeter said at last. “The vintage is from a gentler time.”

“Oh, of course!” Monime said. “I feel so blessed.” She placed her hand upon the chalice. “Did I ever tell you about the time I almost bought a vineyard in Attica?”

Demeter plastered a smile on her face as if she were interested. “I don’t believe so. Tell me more.”

Monime did, managing to talk on and on without needing to wet her throat.

As she continued talking, Demeter stood up and snatched Monime’s chalice, grinding the rim of it against the nymph’s cheek before tossing it, wine and all, into a nearby flower arrangement.

The flowers began to wilt. Monime stared at her in shock and raised trembling fingers to touch her cheek.

“Is this about the wine?” Monime asked. “Because I don’t—”

Demeter watched her closely, dropping all pretenses of a smile.

Monime began to shiver, and then she stood, flinging back her chair. “What did you do? What did you do to me?” She looked around, wild-eyed, and then seized a decorative bowl filled with water and floating blossoms and poured it over her head. Sodden petals clung to her hair, whilst the bowl clattered to her feet.

Perhaps that had only succeeded in spreading the venom further. The skin on Monime’s cheek began to blister, and she howled like a she-demon, clawing at her face.

Demeter was glad for the loyalty of her servants; everyone a league distant was certain to have heard Monime’s cries, terrible as they were. Monime sank to her knees, still screaming and tearing out her own hair in her agony.

“What does it feel like?” Demeter asked.

“Burns... it burns!” Monime whimpered, her words difficult to distinguish. “What did I do... what did I do to offend you?”

Demeter considered it. “Your stories were awfully dull.”

Monime wordlessly screamed.

The sounds were giving Demeter a headache. “Would you like it to stop?”

“Yes!” Monime screamed again. She had succeeded in ripping out a chunk of her cheek, and blood ran down her neck, staining her chiton. Still she writhed on the ground, her scuffles making an uneven set of marks that the servants would need to carefully rake over on the morrow. “Yes—I’ll do anything!”

“As you say.” Demeter waved her hand, and Monime was gone, replaced by a young oak. Some of the bark formations on its trunk almost looked like a face, the mouth gaping wide in perpetual horror.