Archive of Our Own

Melinoë returns to the Crossroads fuming.

Her pride is splintered. Her back aches fiercely. Her very teeth are on edge; scowling is not one of her frequent expressions but it’s enough to attract Nemesis to her like a fly to rotten fruit.

“Rough night, Princess?”

“Eat it.”

Nemesis’ scoff fades in the mist as Melinoë stalks through the shrouded glade. She spies the space behind the cauldron empty and pauses a half-step before shoving the pulse of worry down. She’s fine. Headmistress would scorn her for even noticing her absence. 

The thick tangle of ivy obscuring the hotsprings does little to keep the heat from spilling out. She can already feel the temperature difference as she approaches, the glade’s cool air evaporating into steam. It engulfs her when she pushes through, immediately mitigating some of her pains.

And then she spies a hat on the top stair.

Melinoë frowns. From her position, she can’t see into the pools quite yet—she takes a few steps up, tentatively. The soles of her feet grow warm from the stone.

“Headmistress?”

Her call produces no response, though the roiling springs are particularly deafening. She hadn’t known Hecate to take baths. Well, uninvited, of course. She’d always assumed she incanted away whatever filth accumulated on her body—not that she could even imagine her filthy, either. Hecate used to dunk her in the river when she was little, and by the time she could produce her own magick, left her be.

She pads up the rest of the stairs after some mental back-and-forth. Was it intruding if they’d done this countless times? The thought of joining her requiring a formal invite almost makes her laugh. When she reaches the top, voilà, she sees her.

Well, her bare back. 

It occurs to her that for all her imposing stature, Melinoë has never seen it before, as usually they’re facing during their baths. She follows the trail of discarded clothing—cloak, silver plating, more…cloak?—but remains fixed on the musculature of her Headmistress’ shoulders. 

It’s no wonder the witch proves such a foe in battle. Drained of magick, she could best her with brawn alone. Thin, silvery scars weave across her scapula, all the way up to her soaking wet hairline. For a moment, Melinoë wonders if any of those are from her.

And by the cruel comedy of the Gods, she’s spotted.

It must’ve been the reflection—or her damned keen senses—but Hecate catches sight of her and jolts in the water. Jolts. As if that’s a thing she does.

“Headmistress?”

Melinoë watches a dark arm shoot out to grapple for her mask. A wisp of green enchants it to her face, and then she turns properly.

“Melinoë,” Hecate exhales. “I regret to say you startled me but I’m, well. No matter. Come along.”

She walks impishly forward. “I’m sorry, Headmistress. It was rude of me to stare.”

“Were you?”

Melinoë breaks her faithfully downset gaze. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You’ve just so many…scars. More than when I was little.”

“Ah.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ll grant you privacy and peace.”

“Oh, get in. Plenty enough room for two.”

It’s hard to describe the spark of excitement in her chest, and even worse to name it. The tension eases from her at once—her fingers claw at the affixed silver plating around her neck, until the magick securing it loosens. It drops to the stone with a clank.

Melinoë ignores that green-eyed glare as she strips, shredded orange fabric pooling around her ankles. The thigh guard is the third to go, cosmetic if nothing but, and met with the same treatment as the rest. In her hurry, she nearly forgets the metal circumferencing her left arm, and only notices when Hecate looks at it pointedly.

“Made a mess of yourself out there, did you? I didn’t expect you back quite so early.”

“Neither did I,” Melinoë growls. The steam obscures her nakedness little but the way it warms her skin is delightful. “I was halfway gone by the time I scraped what was left of me out of Oceanus. I should hate these waters, and yet.”

Stepping into the boiling comfort wracks a shudder from her entire body; Hecate steadies her with a wet, outstretched hand, which she squeezes gratefully as she descends. She can only make it halfway down the steps; if she were to even stand as deep as Hecate, she’d be submerged by several lengths.

“Thank you, Headmistress.”

Her genuinity is met with a discarded hum. Melinoë can scarcely keep her eyes open once she’s immersed. Her head tips back on the stone, cool compared to the heat of the water. She releases a breath that’s more groan than anything. Any other night, it would be humiliating, exposing such weakness. 

But Hecate makes no remark, and they fall into a comfortable silence. Lest for the churning of the springs and the spill of mist over stone. For several minutes, it’s enough.

And then Melinoë cracks an eye open.

Hecate is looking elsewhere, and her profile eclipses most of her expression. It belatedly occurs that her Headmistress is entirely avoiding her gaze.

Melinoë looks down at herself and for the first time feels shame crawl up her spine. Her knees draw inward, and she wraps her arms around them. “Have I upset you, my lady?”

Hecate’s head swivels. “What? No, Melinoë.”

“If my failure is bothering you, we can bathe another time.”

“Nonsense.”

“Then why aren’t you…”

Pale green lashes flutter against her cheeks, and Hecate turns away once more. Melinoë follows her gaze to an outcropping of rock, and then a glint catches her eye. And another; one more after that. Blinking the mist out of her eyes, Melinoë leans forward—

A grin splits her wide open.

“Are you—”

“Melinoë.”

“—drunk, Headmistress?”

Any other time such an accusation would incur a punishment—a quick scorch of flame, a lashing (accurate) admonishment, but not now. She spies further, scooting closer to the witch to get a better view, and there it is. There they are. Empty bottles of nectar. Teeming amphoras of ambrosia.

“Darkness, let it be, would you?”

“You are!”

Hecate grunts and drags a pruned hand over her face. Her shoulders begin to shake; for a second, Melinoë worries she’s actually upset her, but then realizes with a shock she’s laughing.

“Headmistress,” she giggles, negging her with a shoulder. “Never did I expect such a scandal.”

She’s pushed away by several meters with ease, her thighs dragging smoothly over stone as she does. Almost too rough. Uninhibited. She clearly doesn’t notice the show of strength, but Melinoë does.

“Gods,” Hecate sighs, though her eyes crinkle with mirth. Melinoë can tell beneath her mask she’s smiling. “Always inquisitive. I can’t even scorn you for it. It’s how I raised you to be.”

Melinoë braces both arms around the edge and hoists herself back up, damn near climbing over her. She pays no mind to her exposed breasts in favor of counting the bottles—one, two, three, four, five—

“How much have you drank?”

“How much have you given me?”

There’s no spite in her tone at all. Hecate submerges herself to the neck. It’s the first time in Melinoë’s life she’s ever seen anything close to sheepishness on her; her resolve has always been so…well, resolved.

“And you’ve kept all of it to, what, gorge yourself on spirits while I’m away?”

Melinoë feigns a pout, but giggles once more when Hecate rolls her eyes. 

“Can’t I have a moment of peace in these damned woods?”

“I’d wager this is more than a moment,” Melinoë argues. She drops back into the spring. “This is…impressive. I’m impressed. Gods, how have you not drowned?”

Her Headmistress heaves a sigh and leans back, toned arms outstretched on either side of her. Melinoë decidedly avoids looking at her chest. 

“I have certain,” Hecate pauses over her words, “difficulties when it comes to intoxication.”

“Is it because you’re massive?”

Hecate sends a wave crashing into her face. Melinoë splutters. It goes up her nose.

“That is not how you speak to a lady.”

“I apologize.”

“If there’s anything you are, sorry you are naught.”

“Maybe,” Melinoë says, delighted.

“I ought to take your tongue. I could, as you are well aware.”

“You have the power to do countless, unimaginable things. I don’t think you will, though.”

Hecate glares at her again, and then sinks a little deeper. Her head tilts. “Awfully brazen of you, child.”

“You’re right,” she replies. But the smile doesn’t fade. “It’s nice to see you like this, anyway. Without worry.”

The other woman—if she can even call her that—relaxes. “To be without worry,” she sighs. “All right. Tonight, and only tonight, we shall act as equals.”

“Equals.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“It sounds like you’re inviting me for a drink.”

“I am most certainly not.”

“Will you stop me, though?”

“Must you be so difficult?”

Melinoë grins. Hecate’s large frame twists as she reaches for the ambrosia, and she knows she’s won when she settles and holds it tightly, peering over her mask.

She feigns surprise. “Is that for me?” 

“Oh, give it up, won’t you? You’re hardly coquettish.”

“Then by all means, Headmistress. Pass it over,” she adds, “please.”

Hecate hesitates. “I must warn you. ‘Tis…rather strong, Melinoë.”

“I’ve had nectar before.”

“Have you ambrosia?”

Melinoë pauses. No, she hasn’t. But she’s gifted it quite often. Spirits have never been quite her taste, but sharing it with her Headmistress? It’s suddenly the best idea in the underworld.

She doesn’t answer. She simply crawls forward, naughtily, until she’s close enough to pry it from Hecate’s clawed hand and sit back on her haunches. It’s hardly a challenge to take it from her, though she’s all too aware of her Headmistress’ knowing look as she lifts the rim of the bottle to her lips and tilts it upwards, and—

Gods, it burns.

Melinoë chokes it down. Three things pop into her mind: one, it’s incredibly thick; two, it’s incredibly bitter; and three, it’s incredibly strong. Nectar was not like this. Nectar was sweet, pleasant on the tongue, and gave her a mild buzzing feeling from her face to her neck, but that was about it. 

Nothing like ambrosia.

Melinoë barely has time to set down the amphora—barely notices the very little she’s drank—before her vision begins to swim, and warmth spreads from the crown of her head to her limbs. The heat growing inside of her is nothing compared to the water. Her palate singes to her stomach.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” her Headmistress responds. “Oh.”

“And you can just,” she braces herself with one arm. “Drink this?”

“Quite easily, in truth.”

Again, silence. Melinoë is far too focused on the immediate effects of intoxication. “It feels…warm.”

“You don’t have to study it, Melinoë. ‘Tis not a lesson.”

The surface ripples. Melinoë watches Hecate set the bottle down, and she catches her arm before she can push it away. 

“Don’t. I like it.”

Her voice is tinny to her own ears. Meek. This amuses her, and her smile almost reaches her ears. Gods, it feels like she’s floating. The water feels incredible. To her blurry, distant surprise, her Headmistress obeys.

“I shouldn’t have let you drink that,” she tsks. “No matter. Enjoy the water, Melinoë. The effect will wear off in mere minutes.”

Melinoë sighs. Her night was so disappointing. Her Headmistress was so proud when she turned up unscathed and battle-ready; their spar lasted no time at all. And then she blew it all on Scylla and her blasted band. She was sloppy in the Fields of Mourning. Her death was undignified.

Her gaze wanders from the witch to the glistening bottle, just out of arm’s reach. She seems at ease in these waters. At ease in ways that make Melinoë childishly jealous.

In a moment of unfathomable selfishness, she snatches it before her Headmistress can intervene.

“Melinoë!”

She swallows like she’ll never taste ambrosia again—she quite literally may not, Hecate might have it locked up by morning—until her tongue is singed and her throat hurts and the bottle is wrenched away.

The air meets her lungs in a fiery rage that sends her shuddering. Her vision swims. She can hear the pink of shattering glass—Hecate must’ve thrown it against something, hopefully not the water—

“You drank half the bottle, you impudent, foolish—”

Melinoë can’t hear her anymore. The admonishment only serves one thing: heating her up. Everything is bliss. 

“—not meant for godlings—” “—you’ll be sick—” “—Melinoë? Look at me, Melinoë.”

How long have her eyes been closed? She pries them open with all the effort in the world—no, that’s Hecate and her claws. Her pupils snap back into place. 

Light scintillates. Her Headmistress is silhouetted with soft light. Amber, green, blue, silver. Refracting water. Melinoë thinks: Gods, her Headmistress is beautiful. 

“What?”

Oh. She said that aloud. Her damned tongue, always moving. Squirming about. 

“Stop speaking, Melinoë.”

“I’m trying.” 

That, she hears herself say. Somewhat mastering her turbulent senses, Melinoë wipes her face with the back of her hand. It’s hot. Pruny. That’s from the springs, probably. She blinks her vision somewhat clear.

Hecate is so, so close to her. She glues her jaw shut until her teeth ache and her traitorous brain produces so many rapid thoughts she can’t parse any of them individually; her eyes dart from her visible green iris, the only one exactly like her own, they’re so similar. Her dark skin is so warm, and cold, and she can’t ever tell what color it is—ochre, slate, umber. Changes with the light. Her Headmistress is so fond of her, and oh, she doesn’t deserve it, not when she’s filthy like this. The water licks up her neck. It’s orgasmic. She wishes it were—

“Stop. Speaking.”

“I can’t,” Melinoë shakes, or she would if there weren’t two massive hands pinning her to the limestone. “I don’t want to think these things.”

Hecate remains inches from her, brow furrowed in deep concentration, or concern, Melinoë doesn’t really care, as long as she’s close.

“You feel safe,“ she slurs. “I’m sorry.”

After a long, painful while, Hecate replies, “Breathe, Melinoë.”

Against all odds, she listens. She inhales deeply, until her sinuses are infused with salt. Until all that’s left is that heady disorientation, that disembodied pleasure that scorches every nerve.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. But neither of them move, except for Hecate extracting herself—Melinoë protests with a moan that curries no favor—and rests parallel so they’re facing the same direction. 

“I warned you, child.”

Melinoë is limp. She hears with clarity, but she’s definitely drunk. Water laps at her. It still feels like bliss. Then she remembers who she’s disappointed and straightens like a rod.

“Forgive me, Headmistress, I don’t—I don’t know why I,” pause. “Said those things.”

“Ambrosia.”

“Does it normally…”

“Eradicate inhibition? Yes.”

She nods, fixed on a pillar opposite them. Grimaces. “What kind of inhibitions?”

Hecate remains quiet for a long while. “It does not cause arousal, no. Or attraction. That was…merely circumstantial.”

It takes several moments to realize what Hecate is implying, and she hides her face in horror. The pleasures surrounding her are suddenly suffocating, and the urge to escape trumps all. She surges out of the spring and stumbles.

“I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your evening. Forgive me.”

A hand grips her ankle. 

“Sit down.”

She plunks back down on the step.

Hecate sighs. Melinoë is terrified to look at her, but look at her she does. Her jaw works beneath her mask. Her one eye flits about in small increments. She really is beautiful. The thought strikes her like a bolt of lightning—she wants to fling herself in a pit of lava. Wants to walk out nude into the woods and let a wraith deafen and tear her apart. 

“I am not your mother, Melinoë.”

Melinoë tenses but nods anyway, hugging her knees. “This is the most humiliating moment of my life,” she admits.

“It needn’t be.”

Hecate’s ease surprises her. “Are you not mad?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Hecate grunts with the effort of turning herself around; Melinoë realizes she’s crushed herself small on the single rung below her. 

“Because,” she says, “quite frankly, I am heavily intoxicated. You are young, and for your age, well.” She waves a hand. “I’m entirely unsurprised.”

Melinoë’s jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“Foremost, mind your tone, but secondly,” her Headmistress shrugs. “I raised you, but I instilled in you from the moment you could speak you were my pupil, and I your teacher. It’s only natural that you developed this way.”

“You’re not…uncomfortable?”

Hecate laughs again, which makes her cheeks burn. “Hardly.”

Melinoë sits with this information until the boiling hot water starts to feel good again. Until the ambrosia in her system reveals itself. She trails her nail over the surface and watches it ripple, and watches Hecate watch, too.

“Headmistress?”

Hecate hums.

“Would you like more to drink?”

Her green eye does not widen. In fact, her expression does not change at all. Melinoë follows her gaze; empty bottles glint back at her. 

“Behind the pillar.”

Melinoë has never stood up so fast.

She’s back to the spring in record time; it would be a pity if she dropped the ambrosia in her haste, but by the grace of the Fates, it remains unshattered. She is, also, entirely too aware of the way Hecate tracks her nudity as she sits down. It makes her as emboldened as it makes her nervous.

Hecate uncorks it with a simple twist of her fingers. Froth spills down the side; it must be a side effect that it makes her salivate. Definitely not the deftness of her hand, or the foam cascading down it.

The enchantment holding her mask in place dissolves. Melinoë traces the contour of her jaw, the hollowness of it—the sharp lines of her nose, her piercing green eye. 

“Not a word,” Hecate says, to which Melinoë nods rapidly. She isn’t sure what she’s agreeing to; her devoted silence, or commenting on her appearance. It’s like fighting every urge in her system, but she agrees. 

Hecate lifts the amphora and drinks with ease. Melinoë watches the gentle movements of her trachea. She makes it look effortless. When she passes it over, it’s with a sad laugh.

Self-conscious, she holds the bottle tight. “What?”

“To see you so highly strung reminds me of myself, when I was much like you. If it’s permission you seek, put your mind at ease. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Melinoë stares into the amber for several seconds. It gleams unnaturally, oillike. She waits long enough for Hecate to continue or stop her, but nothing ever comes. With her Headmistress’ approval, she takes a long, slow drink.

It does not go unnoticed by Melinoe that she allows her to make her own decision.

It hits her again instantly, just as potent but not nearly as overwhelming now she knows what to expect. She pulls more of the liquid into her mouth, nursing with small, greedy little gulps until Hecate pulls it away; Melinoë makes a petulant noise.

“Don’t waste it,” she chides, “learn your limits, child.”

The ambrosia warms—everywhere. Everything. Every inch of her, but this time it’s a slow, pleasurable crawl between her legs. Her skin prickles even beneath the scalding water. Hecate drinks again. And again, Melinoë stares, enraptured as the ambrosia disappears down her throat.

Hecate stops just before it’s empty and hands it back. Melinoë consumes the rest of it with a fever.

Hecate stretches her legs out and sighs, one arm settling behind Melinoë’s back. It reminds her of how she’d hold her when she was little. It makes her feel very, very small.

“Headmistress?”

Hecate does something she doesn’t expect. She takes Melinoë’s face in her palm, brushing her thumb over her cheekbone. Fond. Familial. Heat seizes in her chest; she leans into it. 

“Come here, Melinoë.”

The arm behind her turns into a guiding hand, settling in the small of her back and gently pushing her forwards. Melinoë walks on her knees until she hits Hecate’s bare thigh and stumbles. She glances down at her challenge, can barely see her through the surface, but her Headmistress coaxes her along with her other hand until she’s sat in her lap.

Hecate is warmer than the water. Warmer than the ambrosia coursing through her veins. Her bare skin feels so heavenly that Melinoë has to bite back a whimper.

“Look at me.”

Melinoë does. Her face is half obscured; she goes to brush her hair away, but Hecate grabs her wrist and brings it down below the surface. Presses it to her sensitive inner thigh, and leaves it there. That same hand drags her nails—sharp, sharp nails—up her waist, her ribcage, and eventually rests at her collarbone. Firm, deep, grounding pressure.

She’s breathtaking. She yearns to say it. Instead, her gaze darts to her lips. The same shade as her own.

Quietly, she asks, “What is the nature of a relationship between two immortals?”

“You are not immortal, Melinoë. And I am far, far older than you.”

Hecate surveys her. She burns, blurry with want and intoxication and approval, balancing on a razor’s edge. When her gaze lands on her chest her back arches on its own. Every instinct calls to present the best of herself for her. It’s the only thing she’s ever known.

Her Headmistress tilts her up by her chin, and that same unpinnable expression lingers. Melinoë almost takes it with disappointment, fearful she’s going to cast her away at last, and then—

“I’m using you, Melinoë. You have one purpose. I’ve been using you your entire life.”

“Use me like this, then.”

Hecate’s breath catches. Melinoë’s senses sharpen—her Headmistress’s grip faltering, the swipe of her thumb over her bottom lip.

“Have you done this before?”

Melinoë doesn't answer. Hecate pushes down with her nail. The sting jerks her forward. 

“Answer me, Melinoë. Have you done this before?”

She shakes her head no. 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Melinoë says.

The hand at her waist squeezes, once. “I will not go easy on you,” Hecate warns. “Unlike others, I will not be gentle.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Headmistress.”

Something sparks in that cerulean eye. Hecate takes a deep, grounding breath, and traces her lip with something akin to fondness.

“Then open your mouth.”

Melinoë feels the resulting ache travel up her thighs. Her jaw slackens, and the slide of her Headmistress’ two fingers against her tongue sends such a strong current of arousal through her she gasps. 

Hecate’s fingers are much, much larger than her own, and her mandible aches immediately from accommodating them. Sinew and muscle stretch as Hecate crooks them deeper, digging her nail into the fleshy underside of her chin to keep her in place. Her eyes begin to burn, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Good,” Hecate murmurs, her expression dark.

She pumps them slowly, lewdly. Her thighs squeeze tightly around her Headmistress’ waist. She whines.

“Suck. Use your tongue.”

So Melinoë does. Her inexperience proves a challenge, but she’s never been known to back down from one. She sinks forward until she’s past the first knuckles, until they hit the back of her throat, and she gags.

A hand cards through her hair. “Easy, child.”

Melinoë makes a sound of frustration. It's hard to tell what pleases her; she just keeps on staring with that shadowed look of intrigue. Hecate allows her to spit them out.

“If you aren't going to tell me how to do it,” she growls, “you should show me.”

Hecate regards her coolly. What she’s asking doesn't sink in until she reaches down, circles her wrist, and brings her hand above the surface of the water.

She slips three of Melinoë’s fingers—green, shimmering phalanges—into the slick cavity of her mouth, with complete and utter lack of trying. Her cheeks, already carved sharp, hollow as she lathes her tongue over them. Through them. She licks every single one of Melinoë’s fingers clean of saltwater, without breaking eye contact.

And then she releases her.

Melinoë’s index snags on her bottom lip. Her brain is useless tissue, her heart sluggishly pumping the concoction of ambrosia, want, all of it. Slowly, she drags a fingertip over her incisors, and then tugs on her gumline. Hecate watches her with mild curiosity, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her inner palm. 

“Headmistress,” she says, stupidly. “I want to kiss you.”

Hecate glances away. “Best not to behave as lovers, Melinoë.”

Melinoë stills. Somehow, those words are worse than any blow Hecate has ever given her. The effect is disorienting. Hecate notices.

“Look at me, child.”

“No, it’s…”

I think I’ve misunderstood, is what she wants to say. I don’t understand you at all is what she doesn’t. Her shame bridles to a white hot point. Melinoë looks down at their conjoined bodies, certain she’s made some kind of mistake. Her palate tastes of saltwater and spirits.

“You misunderstand me.”

Melinoë can hardly stifle a laugh. She could’ve written that one. Her Headmistress gathers her hands and rubs her thumb over them in an attempt to be soothing. It isn’t.

“It would be unwise to become attached, Melinoë. This is a fine line we walk, and if we are to proceed further you must listen.”

“I’ve proven myself to you,” Melinoë says, “over and over again. I’ve lived in dedication to you, and you alone.”

“The ambrosia proves you bold," Hecate corrects. "And that is precisely why we cannot reach that point. Your ambitions cannot be overshadowed by—”

“Fantasy? Is that what we’re indulging in, Headmistress?”

“Melinoë.”

“Best not to risk it all on your darling prodigy, if I’m to understand you properly. You’ll sully your pupil’s integrity but not her heart. Who would you like me to give it to, then?”

Hecate sighs. “‘Tisn’t what this is about, child. The Fates will not have it be.”

“As far as I’m aware, they’re occupied. In the House of my birthright.”

“Enough.”

The force of Hecate’s tone shockwave the spring, deafening both their voices. There's no way it wasn’t heard beyond the ivy; at least, this way, they secure no intrusion. After several beats, Hecate drops her hands. 

“There is much you don’t understand, and much to be revealed. I would never inflict pain on you that wasn’t absolutely necessary. If you want to offer me your body, I will take it. I cannot guarantee more. Not now. Not when there is so much to lose.”

What is it on her face? What expression? Is it trepidation? Irritation? Boredom? Melinoë can’t pin it down, though her words pierce her entirely. 

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.”

It’s guilt. Hecate won’t meet her eyes. Damn it all, her instilled sense of loyalty, the devotion trained into her since the moment she was born. She clenches her fists beneath the water because there’s nothing else to hit.

“Explain it to me one day.”

“Once you’ve completed your task, I will.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I do.”

Hecate’s voice is graven. Melinoë’s treacherous brain thinks it sounds like marriage vows. She doesn’t know if it’s intoxication or compulsion compelling her to tilt her Headmistress’ face towards her, but in the midst she swears she sees a burst of red through her hair. 

Gods.

Just like her.

It hits her, suddenly. Sullenly. Hecate is right. There is so much she doesn’t understand. 

“I'll kill him for you,” Melinoë vows. “I’ll kill time itself a thousand times over if it means I can have you.”

Hecate’s laugh is both hopeless and fond. She presses into Melinoë’s palm, kisses her inner wrist, and Melinoë feels the warmth of her breath trickle down her forearm.

“But right now,” she whispers, shakily weaving her fingers through the sopping hair on the nape of Hecate’s neck, “I’m sure there are ways that I can cope.”

Her Headmistress keeps her eyes closed for a few seconds longer. She rouses renewed with vigor.

“Tell me what it is you desire in the night, then, when your touch wanders. Do I linger in your mind?”

“Yes,” Melinoë answers.

Hecate nips her hand while one of her own drags across her inner thigh. The twin sensations make her shudder.

“I never feel quite as alive as when we’re through with our sessions, Headmistress.”

The witch lets out a hum, and rewards her by rubbing slow, smooth circles over her flesh. 

“Is it the excitement, then? Always so receptive, so eager to prove yourself to me, night after night.”

Melinoë nods. “It’s the excitement, and the…”

How can she put it in a way that doesn't sound mad? That the thrill of death by her Headmistress’ hand electrifies her in a way incomparable to anything else?

“Speak, Melinoë.”

“Out of all the threats I face out there, Headmistress, our encounters are the ones I crave the most.”

Five nails sink into the meat of her outer thigh, and it rips the exact noise intended out of Melinoë’s throat.

“Your resolve is impeccable, I’ll give you that,” Hecate murmurs, “but you’ve also given me quite the advantage.”

The idea of Hecate using this against her sends Melinoë into a swirling spiral. She steadies herself against her Headmistress’ shoulders. Traces the trapezial muscle.

“You trained me not to give anything away,” she murmurs. “You made me who I am, and I dedicate myself to you. Use it all you like.”

Hecate vexes her yet again. “Of all the things you are, Melinoë, you are not easy. Not in battle, nor weak minded.”

Melinoë exhales a steady, uncertain breath. The fingers on her inner thigh shift in the slightest. Absently, she angles her hips to catch any part of her, but she’s deftly avoided.

She tuts. “Are you truly so desperate to chase my hand?”

“No, Headmistress.”

Memories of sparring consume her; action followed by correction, or praise. In those moments, existing didn't matter. Only winning her Headmistress’ merit. This feels much the same.

Hecate makes a low, purring noise. Her lips brush the side of Melinoë’s neck. 

“You’re burning up,” she whispers. “I can feel the heat of you in my palm. Your body betrays you, yet your words do not.”

Melinoë’s riposte is stolen by the sharp, sudden sink of Hecate’s teeth in her throat. 

She cries out. The pain is unexpected, and her nails dig crescents into skin that fade immediately. Her spine bows in a rigid arc.

“You needn’t offer yourself up like a prize, Melinoë,” she murmurs. The vibration feels like her own voice. “If it is pain you desire, I will push you beyond your limits. But I expect more than your submission. More than this.”

Hecate swipes a knuckle through her. Melinoë proves her point by surging into it, mouth open. No sound escapes.

She takes it away. “More than a sapling coming to bloom in my hand. Would you open your legs for anyone with as much advantage over you?”

“No,” she repeats. “I swear it.”

“Oh, you swear it, do you?”

Ten scoremarks scrape up her spine; the water around them tinges red and dissolves. 

“I wonder, with how quickly Eris strikes you down—she's done it oft enough—if you’d ever grow so bold. So many chances you give her, and her sister, too.”

“I’d cast them all aside,” Melinoë hisses, “if you wished.”

“They prove no threat to me, Melinoë. It’s you who should worry, giving so much attention to your adversaries.”

“Are you here to give me a lesson, Headmistress, or take what is due?”

Hecate hums, pleased. “Good. There is power in naming what you want.”

“I want you.”

“That, I know. Only me, then? Only your dearest teacher?”

“It’s only ever been you.”

It’s in her Headmistress’ hesitation Melinoë senses she’s made a mistake. 

“I—”

Hecate silences her with a finger, and the gravity of her confession sinks into the springs. “I think the ambrosia has loosened your tongue a bit too much, Melinoë.”

It's the perfect opportunity. The perfect out. Melinoë doesn't take it; she dodges it entirely.

“I disagree,” she replies. “You said it in your own words—it’s only natural. I was made in your image.”

“My image.” The words sound sour in her mouth. “Yet again, speaking on matters you know naught.”

Melinoë heats up. Finally, she's found something she can't handle—Hecate’s incessant contradictions.

“You, who took me from my Father, who raised me and became the font of my desire, are the sole reason I am alive. Truly, Headmistress, my family is never farther from my mind than when we are together. Not when my real m—”

“How many times must I say I am not—”

For the first time in Melinoë’s life, she disobeys an order from the witch of the crossroads. Kissing her doesn't feel like defying the Fates. 

It’s more like stepping on a grenade.

Her Headmistress doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t still in that split-second it takes for Melinoe to realize what she’s done; she licks into her mouth with feverish hunger. With violence. Melinoë gasps, clawing, pulling in lungfuls that aren't choked off by her tongue. The air is sweetened and alight with magick.

“You’ll be the death of us both,” snarls Hecate.

Melinoë moans wantonly into her. 

Her Headmistress is larger but nigh identical to her—their lips fit together perfectly, fluidly, and they meet in tandem. Her kisses are almost as predictable as their sparring, but this wells a different sort of heat. The back-and-forth is like a dance. She can't think. Can scarcely remember to breathe, this is all she's ever wanted—

“Your thoughts are so loud, child,” Hecate says against her lips. “I can taste them.”

Headmistress guide me.

She doesn't say that she can taste Hecate too. Deeper than the ambrosia, deeper than the lilac scent that clings to her like shadow; the source of her magick. A dark flavor, like nightberry wine. Intoxicating.

Melinoë presses herself flush against Hecate’s chest—her stomach rests against her breasts, one clawed hand lifting her up, cupping her rear. The other drags her in. Hecate kisses her like she's been starved of it her whole life, not the other way round. 

And Hecate’s tongue pairs well with ambrosia, Melinoë thinks dizzily.

“Headmistress,” Melinoë whines, between lips and teeth and tongue. She scrambles for purchase in Hecate’s dripping green tresses, everything wet, all wet. 

“Patience, Melinoë.”

But her tone is far from patient. Her Headmistress licks past her molars. Her words are hot puffs of air against Melinoë’s cupid’s bow. The roughness of her voice sends Melinoë into  desperate frenzy; she crawls closer and smothers Hecate’s grin with her own.

“No one’s coming in,” she whispers, discarding the witch’s mouth to favor her jaw, the contours beneath. Hecate is still as marble, yet she hears the catch when she sucks on a spot beneath her ear. She’s always wanted to do that.

“You assume so eagerly.”

Hecate hardly casts a sideways glance before the hex appears; far beyond the ivy. She’s seen those wards before, when she was little and Hecate wanted to be left alone. 

“I haven’t seen you cast that in ages.”

“I’ve hardly the opportunity.”

Melinoë can’t bear the meager distance separating them thus; she punctuates Hecate’s sentence with another kiss. Feels her laugh. Two clawed hands come to rest at her waist.

“You’ve no suitors, then?”

“Mm.” 

Her lips are distracting her, then. Back to her jaw. Her ear, rather. Melinoë noses past her hair and breathes out deep, catching the shell between her lips. “It’s a serious inquiry.”

Hecate leaning back against the edge of the springs almost flings Melinoë right off her, but her waist is held steady. She sits up straight. Her mouth is slick and swollen.

“No suitors, Melinoë. No time. Not at my age, anyway.”

“And if there were?” 

She sighs. “Your job is to kill time, remember? Speak to me about suitors once it’s accomplished.”

It’s meant to tease, but the very thought of there being another makes Melinoë seethe. The Titaness is formidable and ethereal. Ancient. Half of Olympus would chase her down, familial tie or not.

“I don’t want there to be another.”

Hecate tucks a lock of hair behind Melinoë’s ear. “There won’t be, child. Now, stop with this insufferable interrogation and kiss me. We might not have another chance.”

Melinoë smiles, victorious, when the witch meets her halfway. “Where’s that roughness you promised? Are you not going to take me after all?”

Hecate growls.

Melinoë releases a half sigh, half giggle when her Headmistress lifts her up onto the limestone. Even with the steam spilling over her skin is ice—and very exposed. Hecate flips and drags Melinoë towards her, shoving her knees apart. She feels it all the way down her spread thighs. Kicks reflexively.

“Be still.”

“It’s—cold.”

“Would you rather be in the water, then?”

Melinoë weighs the options, inches from her mouth. One involves being pressed as tight as possible to her Headmistress, but removes the aspect of sight. The other, well.

“If we’re only going to do this once, as non-lovers,” Melinoë decides, “I think I’d like to watch.”

“How indecent of you.”

Melinoë knocks against something and reaches back blindly. Meets another flask of nectar. She laughs nervously.

“I really gave you all my spoils, didn’t I?”

“Go on, then. Take your share.”

Now who’s impatient? Melinoë blinks. “I’m still—”

“Or don’t, child. But from the looks of things you’re rather small, and tight. There are some things enchantments can't do.”

Melinoë tracks her gaze. Flushes when she realizes where she’s staring. The urge to close her knees again is outclassed by the bottle magickally uncorking itself. She’s had a lot, but spirits truly do soothe the nerves, so she gives in. Melinoë settles back on her elbows and takes a sip. Hesitantly.

Hecate places a kiss just above her knee, another higher. Her knuckles go white around the glass. 

“Relax, Melinoë, and drink.”

She nurses the bottle as Hecate works up her thighs. Spills it when her teeth catch. It rivulets down her chin.

“I thought you told me to relax.”

“And now I’m telling you to obey. Finish it and lie back.”

Laying down contradicts every reason she wanted to be up here in the first place, but the mixed spirits make her dizzy and agreeable. Her back against the warm stone is delicious, and her grip goes slack. The bottle rolls away.

Hecate’s hands are heavy on either side of her thighs. Melinoë holds her breath. Waits. Nothing happens.

“Headmistress, why—”

“You’re dripping, Melinoë.”

Her cheeks scald themselves. Hecate continues murmuring, mostly to herself, as Melinoë stares at the fuzzying canopy above. 

“All down your thighs, darkness, the very stone is slick with you.”

She looks, and burns for it. Her curls are dark and drenched. Instead of meeting her gaze, her Headmistress makes a pleased, continuous sound, and drags her tongue over the limestone.

“Fuck.”

“Language,” she scolds, though she does it once more, humming in satisfaction. “You taste as divine as the Gods made you.”

Hecate kisses her inner thigh. Warm and sticky.

“I’m going to come from you talking like that,” Melinoë hisses.

“I wouldn’t want to break you so easily,” she muses, and then presses the flat of her tongue to her cunt.

Melinoë jackknifes.

Her silver tongue swallows her entirely. Everything. From the crux of her thighs and everything between. No inch left uncovered as she lathes through her, all searing heat, groaning deep in her throat. 

Her Headmistress is…swallowing.

Darkness and shadow and all the Gods in between.

Hot breath spills over her mound, warmer than the steam around them, tinged with celadon. Then she does something with her tongue that—

—Melinoë’s skull cracks against the stone.

“My lady,” she moans. “Gods, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

The sound Hecate makes vibrates deep inside her. Leaves her writhing. Her nails scrape against nothing, no catch in the smoothness. She can only arch and squirm.

“Oh…”

Hecate licks inside, devouring her from the inside out. Her tongue only retreats to plunge in again, searching for something. Melinoë clenches around slippery, blinding heat, feeling debased, sloppy.

Drunk.

She cants mindlessly against her Headmistress’ mouth, aiding her as she’s fucked. Hecate’s tongue reaches a point so deep it nearly bottoms out inside her. The pressure is unlike anything she's ever felt. Primal.

“It’s so much…”

Hecate extracts herself with a decadent, slow swipe across her labia, and Melinoë barely avoids snapping her hips into her face. Everything is blurry. She spreads her legs mindlessly.

“Aren't you a sight like this,” Hecate praises, tingling all the way up her spine. “I should've rewarded you this way sooner. I wonder how beautifully you would've performed for me then.”

Melinoë shudders, letting out a drunken uh-huh, swimming in desire. In agreement.

“The spirits have made quick work of you,” she mires. “And how slick you are, child. I could take you like this.”

Melinoë nods so rapidly her skull aches where a knot is blooming. “Please, Headmistress.”

“Do you think you deserve it?”

She inhales sharply when the tip of a claw drags through her cunt, lingering on her entrance before trailing up to her clit. It stings. Her breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prepare yourself for me, then.”

She frowns at her meaning until Hecate drags that same finger up her curls, her ribs, her neck—and to her mouth. A thin, raised line of slick and skin left in its wake.

Again?

Melinoë opens her mouth with no further instruction.

Hecate doesn't allow her the same graces as before. She coos, pleased, when Melinoë’s tongue eagerly wraps around it, eyes fluttering at the taste of herself, and then shoves over half the length inside. 

Melinoë chokes, but the grip on her jaw is lethal. She couldn't pull off if she wanted. Hecate works her finger against the back of her tongue. Forming a seal is nearly impossible, but she shuts her eyes and tries to open her throat up. Hecate immediately takes advantage. She’s in all the way before Melinoë can even blink.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Nnh—”

“Breathe, Melinoë, or suffocate. You’ll return all the same.”

She inhales, sloppily, in the spare moments her claw isn't sabotaging her windpipe. A thick mixture of saliva and wetness rolls down her chin. Beyond the pain, she's desperate to prove herself—Hecate was right. Always so eager.

“That’s it.”

Melinoë won't let the light drain away, not like this. Not before she’s paid her due. She gets a rhythm going, truly, learning when to inhale and when to suck until it isn't so hard, but it still sears. Tears streak her face. Like any other training, Hecate doesn't relent, she pushes, and pushes, until she's fucking her face proper, and Melinoë’s flat against the stone. Her own hands circle around her Headmistress’ wrist.

The noises escaping her are filthy. Crude, wet suffocation. Her palate must be scraped, her tongue bleeding. It doesn't stop. Melinoë meets her readily, sinfully, until Hecate extracts herself in a fluid motion, sending Melinoë into a coughing fit.

She gasps for air. Her throat is ruined, but the burning between her thighs is worse, and she’s pounding from the asphyxiation.

“Good,” she hears from somewhere below her. Hecate’s breathing is ragged. “Good, Melinoë.”

Melinoë starts to speak. Stops. Her abused vocal chords crack wickedly. 

“Sit up.”

She’s up in seconds, bare chest heaving. Hecate looks about the same, locked in on her mouth—

And kisses her. Deeply.

Melinoë’s groan aches all the way down to her stomach, but it's worth it to feel Hecate’s in return. Her Headmistress pulls her so close, crushing her abdomen to her wet cunt. The pressure on her clit is euphoric, and she chases the grooves of musculature, keening. She’s just started a rhythm when Hecate tortures her by pulling away. Water sloshes on the stone, hot beneath her thighs as Hecate towers over her, rendering Melinoë speechless. What can she even say? You’re everything, maybe. You’re everything I want to be.

“On your back.”

She hits the ground gentler this time. Hecate cushions the nape of her neck. Her Headmistress barely has to lean over to eclipse her. Melinoë tracks the miles of skin until Hecate pins her with a touch. One finger covers her slit entirely, and when she lines up to her entrance, it’s frictionless.

Her face is pure shadow.

“Oh, my Melinoë,” she murmurs, “how lucky I am to get to take this from you.”

Nothing can prepare her for the feeling of Hecate pushing in. Nights of fantasies drain away. Her brain seizes. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out; the stretch consumes her being.

It’s like she can read her thoughts. “All that work and you’re tight as a vice,” Hecate tuts. “You can do better.”

She pushes her knee up to her shoulder, and that’s when Melinoë screams.

“Headmistress, I can’t—”

“You will.”

Hecate drops next to her ear, whispers something in verse she's never learned—and suddenly the sharpness is gone. Melinoë croaks brokenly; Hecate sinks to the third knuckle, then all the way.

There’s no time to adjust. She builds to an immediately punishing pace, but different to her throat, there’s no scrape. No blood. Just deep, unimaginable pressure as she bottoms out and plunges back in. Her back drags against the stone with every thrust. Up, down. 

Hecate kisses her collarbone lovingly. Unlike Melinoë, she's hardly exerting herself. 

It feels like she’s being torn apart.

Choppy imitations of her name—Headmistress, my Lady—crack and spill. Hecate only purrs, nuzzling her neck, and the juxtaposition between her thrusts and the affection gets Melinoë high. One finger is enough to stretch her out and then some, and once Hecate deems insofar enough, starts to slowly curl.

The moan it coaxes sounds like it’s from someone else’s mouth. Hecate must notice, too, Melinoë can feel the grinning teeth against her throat. It would be so easy to lie back and let Hecate ravage her like this, but something inside her is burning.

Gods, how broken she sounds as that finger works her open. Hecate’s kiss-swollen lips travel back up to her own, a canopy of green all around. Her arm is barely moving and yet—and yet. 

“You’re going easy on me,” she realizes.

Hecate exhales against her mouth, sweet and warm. Her finger crooks, her wrist does something, the angle changes. She feels it immediately, a different kind of pressure, hooking against a spot inside her that makes her toes curl. Her ankle slips down Hecate’s spine. Her eyes roll.

More than the insurmountable pleasure is the knowledge that Hecate’s affections for her have won, and it’s obvious. The love Hecate has for her isn’t invisible like this. She could kill her if she wanted. She could rip her open from the inside out. Instead, she’s making love to her.

Melinoë giggles between a gasp and a moan. 

Her Headmistress seems to take this personally and nips her bottom lip at the same time she pulls out of her, and Melinoë goes rigid. “No, no—don’t…”

Hecate drags her incisor all the way down to her navel, presses a kiss there, and sinks back into the water. Her mouth meets the crux of her thigh while two fingers spread her apart. What’s about to happen hits Melinoë dead through the fog.

“Oh, Gods, wait—”

Hecate’s tongue finds her clit, slides down, and delves through the mess she’s made of her prodigy. Melinoë barely has time to grip her hair before the pressure at her entrance doubles and Hecate forces two fingers inside in one sudden, violent push.

There are moments in the woods where Hecate prevails one way or another, spearing Melinoë through, destroying her soul, boiling her blood at the molecular level—and this is just like that. That caught-breath feeling of loss.

Hecate licks through her own fingers. She fucks in hard. Melinoë has no time to savor it at all, her tongue and fingers in tandem, before she comes, spasming around an intrusion that shouldn’t be possible. She’s still throbbing when her Headmistress cuts through the glow with a knife.

“Is that all it takes for you to climax, Melinoë—a few seconds of filth? No, I’m not done with you. You’ve disappointed me.”

All thoughts of love and affection crash from reality. It wells up, the innate despair of baring her own insufficiencies before her Headmistress.  The ambrosia makes everything a little bit unreal already, but the blurry hand wrapping around her throat, just a little too opaque to be a trick of the light, is definitely real. Hecate flips her face-down.

One of her shades does, rather. Her cheek connects with the stone. Something beneath her breath—laughter? 

The mockery, coupled with a particular crude thrust, makes her wail. The springs are lit unnaturally green. Tornadoes of Hecate’s magick whip around in a storm. Her left arm glows with each pulse.

Darkness, help her.

“What is it, Melinoë? Not what you wanted?”

Melinoë can hardly catch her breath, let alone think. Hecate curls her fingers cruelly. The environment strikes something deepset in her psyche—you’ve given me quite the advantage—and that’s what this is. Hecate is fucking her like she’s lost, like she’s incurred a punishment, and the sensation triplefolds.

“Exactly what I wanted,” Melinoë hisses.

“Good.”

“This—is what I was made for, oh, Headmistress—”

Hecate drags her up by the hair. The springs crash over the side. Hot water laps all the way up to her stomach; her Headmistress’ chin hangs over her shoulder. 

She’s pinned—Hecate’s weight, voice, and hand. Each thrust forces her higher, a reverse arc, her spine bowing. 

“Oh, you’ll need to do better than that.”

The timbre of her voice singes her down to the nerve; Melinoë goes tight as a vice. 

“I spied Icarus earlier, waiting for you out there. Did you speak with him?”

Her words hardly register in the hurricane crash of her brain; the fullness inside her is devastating. If she had any worry of dying she'd fear internal damage. Hecate is bruising her from the inside out.

“I,” swallow, “didn’t, ngh…”

“How fond he is of you,” she laughs, breathy. The hand in her hair comes to seize her left arm, and closes tightly over her own. “Left you with a permanent mark, didn’t he? All out there, on his lonesome. Did you even notice?”

She hadn't. She’d hardly noticed Nemesis. She’d only wondered about her Headmistress.

“No,” she croaks.

“And yet you found your way to me. I hardly blame you. He’s, well.” Thrust. She hums. “Quite meager in comparison.”

Hecate’s voice suffocates her, and the angle has her clit dragging against the limestone. Instead of replying, she keens pitifully.

“Not so formidable on your stomach, Melinoë.”

Melinoë folds her arms around her head, sinking her teeth into her arm to stifle the incessant pitches. Hecate coos.

“I've given him quite the courtesy, letting him perch here night and day, desperate for the sight of you. Hardly following Odysseus’ flight paths, the little birdy, but oh, does he sing. You've been receiving Circe’s blessing in Thessaly, hm?”

Melinoë whimpers. Her Headmistress scoffs.

“Parlor tricks and flourish. Need you ever doubt I can bed you better than a boy, well,” Hecate’s hips roll into her hand,  “maybe I shall show you what I can do.”

The pressure—slamming against her cervix—and the suggestion almost make Melinoë come on the spot. If Hecate’s fingers stretch her out this much, how would—

“I can feel your thoughts, child, so tight and aching. I’d fill you up more than any cock ever could.”

Melinoë wails into her forearm. She tastes blood. When she rips her teeth away, it pools. 

“Going to,” she hisses, “come, Headmistress.” 

“Oh, Melinoë,” Hecate purrs. “You’re not going to be able to stop.”

What—

Pleasure violently surges through her. Her mind numbs. However close she was to orgasming, this isn’t it. The peak hadn’t hit her, not until it suddenly did—like it was ripped from her own body.

Like it was taken from her.

It hurts. Hecate’s fingers feel even larger as she shudders through it, each pulse painfully clamping down around them. She opens her mouth in shock, but a groan comes through, and she goes flat on the limestone. 

Hecate doesn’t stop pumping her fingers.

Melinoë doesn’t stop coming.

Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Waves and waves of bliss roll through her—incessantly, endlessly. Green flickers through her lashes when her eyes aren't rolled into her skull.

A hand around her throat. Lifting. Hecate’s voice in her ear. 

“Is this all you can take?”

It's static, white noise. Claws press into her jugular, and it only builds the feeling as Melinoë lays slack, drunker than the ambrosia. One orgasm into another, pleasure cresting higher than before. Nothing could ever compare to this.

She tries to speak her name, but nothing comes out. Hecate just keeps curling. Her hips are angled higher. A thumb slides against her clit; it feels like fire.

“When you next feel the need,” her Headmistress murmurs, “come to me.”

How could she not?

How could anyone else—

Hecate pushes in, one firm, final thrust, and then slips out of her. The magick dissipates, and so does the pleasure. One final peak, and then Melinoë collapses, spent, under her own weight.

Her throat is released. Hecate caresses her back with a slick hand, silent. Her nails are soothing. It takes ages for Melinoë to regulate her breathing.

She hasn't ever been this exhausted. Being fucked by an ancient witch will do that to you, she thinks, mostly brainless.

“Melinoë?”

She can't form words. Her response is a long drag of air and the following exhale. The basest recognition.

Hecate hums. Melinoë smiles at the press of lips on the back of her neck. Two strong arms slip beneath her—ribs, waist—and drag her back into the water.

She’s half conscious as Hecate works the water through her hair, her stomach, her thighs. Motherly, she thinks. Hecate pulls her flush against her, back to her stomach. Melinoë’s head lolls against her shoulder, limp.

“Have you lost your capacity for speech?”

Melinoë swallows. “Throat hurts,” she manages.

Hecate’s sigh rushes down the back of her ear. It smells of ambrosia and sex. She lowers herself, carefully, until Melinoë sinks to her neck in the springs.

“Better?”

Gods, it’s wonderful. 

Cradled against her, Hecate simply lets her relax. She can't feel a single knot in her body. The ache between her legs is distant now, but the aftereffects linger. She’s high off oxytocin.

Minutes pass. Slowly blinking, Melinoë tilts to look at the empty bottles shining back at her.

“Headmistress?”

The address jilts her. Melinoë wonders, limp, if she was asleep. 

“Yes, Melinoë?”

“Has this changed things?”

Hecate doesn't reply. Her fingers drag soothingly over her skin. Eventually, she presses her lips to the back of her neck once more.

“Only if you wish. We needn’t speak of it, anyhow, not tonight.”

“So it’s tomorrow’s problem, then?”

Hecate makes a fond noise. “Yes,” she repeats, only slightly mocking. “It’s tomorrow’s problem. Now, rest.”

The turn of phrase makes Melinoë smile. Her Headmistress never speaks so plainly.

“On one condition,” she murmurs.

“I don’t think you're in the position to make demands, child.”

“Won’t you hear it?”

She can practically feel her rolling eyes. “Out with it.”

Melinoë pauses, and then says, “You have another drink with me, sometime.”

Hecate’s resulting laugh is so surprised it shifts Melinoë in the water. She settles back against her, pleased.

“As you wish.”