It had been years, a generation almost, since the old ones had departed; some of our youngest daughters had grown curious. Long enough to forget how they hate us, how infuriating the simple act of not needing them could be. They pooh-poohed our warnings who were not alive to remember; what was the worst that could happen?

I remember that sail, white against the horizon, lost in the vapor, how it looked cresting the waves. In the sunlight, it could have been a bird’s wing, a dove beating hard between narrowing cliffs, or an errant plume escaped from Charybdis’s grinning mouth. We all gathered to watch it brave the shoreline, figuring it would be a good story to tell our granddaughters, how we watched the old world try for one last foothold before falling away.

Alas.

I remember how brave our queen looked, how proud, how glorious the music was beating from the city walls. The gates were opened, the way swept smooth, and she walked up to the palace, her hand light upon the head sailor’s sea-rank arm. We received so few visitors, after all.

It took so little. In a year, less, a handful of seasons, we were scattered to the winds, our shining stones pulled down to the weeds, harpies perched foul and mocking in our concert halls. They had come for conquest, and had no patience for the history of our moment.

What is rare must be fleeting; what is new must be beaten down.

for our Lady of the Hounds

Listen, sweetness—

He came to me, one indistinguishable fishtailed god of the sea among many, panting his hot lusts in my ear, begging my knowledge, my useful skills turned to his fruitless ends. “She is beautiful,” he urged, “clear as still water, radiant as coral, powerful as the tide.” He pled a bridle, a bit, training to ride; I plowed him into the sterile sand, quickened with life, potent with god-need, turned him away. He curdled to hate, endless hate, as quick as that, spat curses, and left.

No, no. They want everything who have earned nothing.

Take this, then, his poison, my art, and drink it deep. Pull it deep into your lungs, your blood, your hungry flesh. Grow strong, quick of tooth, strong of neck, breathe water, crunch bones, eat blood. Bay at the moon from a seaside cave from a half dozen lupine throats. They will flee you as they once pursued you, speak honest hate as they fly past, honest fear. The gods themselves will shudder to draw near, pass only at your sufferance, only at your price. They will call you a horror, who only saw your beauty.

Drink this, my sweetness, and grow wild.

for Ash and Mira

Oh, best beloved!

I remember, as I remember all things, the day you carved my eyes from the rock, the clean crisp break between darkness and light, prised apart by the insistent tip of your chisel. I had felt you before then, the nearness of your hands, the pleasant heft of your hammer walking across my heavy weight of skin, but could only picture you by what I had known: darkness, heat, the slow grind of ages. But you, my love, were so much more than that, so antic, so fevered.

I drank you in, all of me, as you pulled the gloves from my fingers and freed my legs from the rock, eyes and skin. Your curled hair, your calloused hands, your engrained squint, my powder thick upon you. I remember the changing light. I remember you, asleep in the corner of the studio, tossing uneasily beneath a thin blanket as winter crept below the door. I would have gone to you then, stilled you, if I could.

Ah, my love, how wonderful it is to have a doting mother! Patient earth, gentle earth, who hears all prayers, who hides all sins! That final moment, my mouth fully curled, half-opened, your tools still against my cheek, when you lifted your eyes to mine, shy and hesitant, frozen now forever! Winter will not stoop so close above you now, nor hunger hollow your cheeks, no more than mine. How lucky we are, you and I, to spend all eternity thus, in rapturous contemplation, until time and weather wear us both to sand.