Page 27 of Those Fatal Flowers

“Come,” Pisinoe sings, and another, larger sailor steps on the fallen man’s hands with a sickeningcrackas he rushes for her. But the sailor on the ground doesn’t scream—he still drags his broken body forward, his mouth open in awe. I can’t understand the words he says, but the meaning is clear from the desperation in his tone:Tell me my fate.

I have to swallow the violent smile that threatens to consume my features as I open my arms to him.

“Come, and I’ll tell you everything.”

The deck tries to stall him, wooden planks cutting ribbons into his clothes and marring his skin with abrasions. Pain must bloom with each shove forward, but the sailor doesn’t stop. Finally, he reaches the ship’s edge and extends a single bloodied hand as he muscles himself over it, broken fingers outstretched to me as he falls. But he doesn’t hit the waves first: His body shatters on a cluster of rocks, and then I’m soaring. Ecstasy washes over me as he’s swallowed by the brine. It’s thousands of seedlings unfurling in the spring from dormant ground; it’s being kissed by a warm summer rain. And then, for the first time in years, I take a slow, deep breath without my chest rattling. My hands form fists.

I sing even louder. And so do my sisters.

We guide the ship toward the rocks that lie in wait submerged beneath the waves between Scopuli and Castle. Like jaws cracking open bones, they do their job splitting the hull. The ship roars, and more men dive into the frothing water below. We circle overhead until the vessel is no more than shattered planks of wood, never once wavering in our melody. Some men sink beneath the surface. Others cling to floating detritus. A few attempt to swim to shore. But the waves, enraged by the storm, are too big, too powerful. They pull the men below one by one and flood their lungs with seawater, and with every single death, we grow stronger. The years dissolve from our bodies as if it’s the rain that washes them away.

There won’t be any survivors. Not having sacrifices is a disappointment, but only those who survive the churning sea make appropriate gifts for Ceres.

When the depths claim the last set of listening ears, we flyback to the cliffs. Tomorrow, our beach will be littered with corpses.

Pisinoe erupts in a triumphant laugh as soon as her feet touch the ground, and I follow her lead. Even Raidne joins, and we find one another’s hands and dance and howl in the storm, reveling in our victory. Only when the rain begins to soften do we finally return to the cottage, and I marvel at the long-forgotten vitality that now courses through my veins. Inside, I stretch my arms overhead to find that my fingertips once again brush the wooden beams that span the ceiling. Raidne’s stew still simmers on the hearth, and she rushes forward to stir it as Pisinoe follows in pursuit of the hand mirror she keeps on the mantel. It’s a scene I’ve lived an uncountable number of times before, but tonight, it blurs behind a veil of tears. I never thought I’d see this again—my two beautiful sisters, young once more, painted in the warm orange glow of a crackling fire.

While I wait for my turn with the looking glass, I run my hands over my body, relishing the feel of my own transformation beneath my palms: Taut skin where it previously sagged, free from wrinkles once more. Wiry hair made soft, and brittle talons sharpened back into blades.

“Who’s next?” Pisinoe asks eventually, but Raidne is too busy nestling her lost teeth back into place. I take a deep breath and accept the ancient mirror, lifting it slowly to find myself inside it.

A young woman stares back at me, so beautiful that I barely recognize her. The ghost of a smile graces her oval face, and I reach first to brush her lips, then my own. They’re soft and pink again, two petals parted. My fingers slip insidemy mouth and gently wiggle each tooth. The bones don’t budge. The firelight highlights the dusting of freckles across my reflection’s nose and makes her blue eyes sparkle. A strange feeling washes over me as I behold myself—I’m no longer a crone, but I’m still older than I was when we were banished. We were children then, me just shy of sixteen, Raidne and Pisinoe only eighteen and seventeen, respectively. Would Proserpina recognize this woman? Would I recognize her?

“It’s your turn, Raidne.”

She turns to face me with a full, glittering smile, and a small gasp escapes her throat as she surveys herself. I force my melancholy away and enjoy the sight of her instead. Though I’ve come to appreciate the beauty in all youth, I was always the plainest of us three.

Raidne is the most beautiful, her lips a deep plum, her eyes the same color as the sky on a stormy day—a capricious and seductive gray that simultaneously draws you in while warning you to stay away. Her moody stare is supported by cheekbones that must’ve been chiseled by the gods, and when she smiles as she does now, it’s enough to make even the most sullen soul’s heart stop.

“Look at us!” Pisinoe screams, jumping to her feet in a giddy fit. “Look at us!”

“Bless the sailors,” Raidne says, her voice full of reverence. “Bless their willing ears.”

After we’ve eaten our fill of stew, Raidne kisses the tops of our heads.

“Let’s try to get some rest,” she whispers into our hair. “Tomorrow will be a full day.”

I collapse onto my pallet, and Pisinoe follows, cuddling in close. Raidne joins. Even she can’t resist the joy of themoment. Within minutes, Pisinoe snores softly beside me, and Raidne’s breath is so shallow that I barely hear it at all. But sleep doesn’t offer me its release.

I think of the men aboard the ship. How long did it take those who clung to its scraps to realize that their destiny was to drown? Did that broken sailor who flung himself from the edge understand what his fate was as he rushed toward the ocean’s surface, or was he still enraptured as his lungs filled with brine?

I hope that in their final moments, our song brings them no solace. I hope that they suffer.

We could never make Dis suffer, but we can punish the sailors in his stead.

We can lure them into the rocks with our song. We can eat the ones who wash ashore, ripping their flesh apart with our talons, tearing into their skin with our teeth. We can cut into their stomachs and inspect their bowels for signs, then slice their throats in a prayer to Ceres for forgiveness.

These images accompany me to the cusp of sleep, and my last coherent thought is how strange it is that such violence makes me smile. But I force it, and its implications, away and let sleep claim me and my monstrous musings. Tomorrow, I won’t remember them anyway.

A tangible excitement draws us out of our slumber before the sun breaks over the horizon. I wander to the window, and when I push open the shutters, the only creaking comes from their hinges. My joints are blessedly quiet once more.

A cool breeze greets me, a reminder that summer is at its end. The storm has passed, leaving behind a world glossed in a sheen of raindrops. It’s beautiful, but the damp will quickenthe decomposition process. If we’re going to salvage anything, we must hurry.

Raidne gravitates to the wooden shelf beside the hearth where the tools are kept. She lifts the blades to the light one by one, letting their razor-sharp edges scintillate for us: hooked knives to skin and gut, sleeker blades to separate meat from bone, saws to dismember. Pisinoe prepares a pot of water over a fire.

“I wish we could’ve drawn them in on gentle seas,” she says, monitoring it for a boil. When bubbles burst across the water’s surface, Raidne hands each knife to Pisinoe, who gingerly deposits them into the pot. It’s important to make sure the blades are clean before we begin our work. “I want to sing for an audience during the warm afternoon sun…It’s been so long.”

We all prefer hunting to scavenging.

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