One afternoon, as we put away our rakes and hoses and as I hauled a bag of black hellebore to the gate, Karter paused. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever said no to that question.” There was nothing he’d asked me about so far that I’d shied away from.

“I know you’re happy with your parents, but do you ever think about your birth mom?”

“Um—sure. I think that’s a normal, right?”

“Makes sense,” Karter said. “Do you know how she died?”

The question caught me off guard. I didn’t answer him right away. My mind twisted back to when I’d asked Mom and Mo that exact same question. I think I was ten or eleven. One of my classmates had gone to a funeral and they told us all about it when they came back. It got me thinking more about death than I had before that point. I’d asked what happened to Selene right in the middle of a spaghetti dinner, and Mom told me that the adoption agency called to tell her Selene had passed away shortly after my adoption was finalized. I knew that already, but I wanted to know how. She said the agency told her she died of an illness.

“She was sick,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Karter said, his voice low. “I know all this belonged to her. My dad died when I was twelve, and I used to go to this one park where we’d had cookouts to feel like I was sharing space with him after he was gone. I was wondering if that’s how you’re feeling now.”

My throat tightened. “I’m sorry about your dad. I hadn’t thought about it like that, but I think that’s beautiful.”

I looked around. Was I sharing space with Selene and Circe? Did Selene even want to share this with me? I didn’t think so, but Circe did. Her letter made that clear, but there was still something left to be discovered. Every time I looked at the spot where the hidden door was, knowing I still didn’t have the key, the pull toward it grew stronger. There was something else here that needed to be uncovered.

CHAPTER 16

Karter left for his afternoon shift at the bookshop, and I took the time to shower, turn up my music in the bathroom I didn’t have to share with anybody, and give my hair the attention it so desperately needed. Two hours and one full Beyoncé Homecoming routine later, my hair was detangled, conditioned, twisted, and sitting under a plastic cap. I was lotioned up and feeling like a whole new me. I swore to myself I’d never let Marie, or anybody else, catch me slippin’ ever again.

I found Mo in one of the bedrooms she was using as a makeshift office, with her dresser as a desk. Everything smelled like freshly washed sheets and potpourri. She set up her computer to do the billing and ordering, but she’d skipped her first scheduled trip back to the shop to help out because one of Mom’s other friends had volunteered to give Jake a hand.

“Hey, Mo. Do you have that email for your friend at the university? I wanted to ask her about some of the books I found.”

“Sorry, love,” said Mo. “I totally forgot.” She sent me a text with her email and went back to her bookkeeping.

I went to my room, opened my laptop, and wrote a short email to Professor Madeline Kent.

Professor,

This is Briseis Greene. My mom, Angie Greene, gave me your email. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Greek mythology, specifically the story of Medea. I’ve come across different stories and thought you might have some more detailed information.

Thanks for your time,

Briseis

I hit send. Before I had a chance to put my phone down, I got a reply.

Hello, Briseis! I’d be happy to talk with you. Would it be all right if I called you?

I sent her my number and my phone rang a few minutes later.

“Professor Kent? Thank you so much for talking to me. I’m sorry to bother you.”

She laughed. “It’s not a problem at all. How’s Angie? I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to call her lately.”

“She’s good. We’re in Rhinebeck for the summer.”

“Oh? Rhinebeck is beautiful in the summer. I’ve been there a few times myself. What can I help you with?”

“We’re cleaning out the house where we’re staying, and the people who lived here before were pretty into mythology, especially Medea. Mo said you were an expert?”

“I have a PhD in Classical Studies and a second PhD in English.”

“So you’re definitely an expert.”

She laughed lightly. “I am and I don’t ever miss an opportunity to say so. As for Medea, she is a tragic figure, but not someone people readily identify when they think of Greek mythology. She is more closely associated with opera or courses that examine narratives centering on the trope of the woman scorned.”

“You mean how she killed her own children to get back at her ex?”

“That part, yes.” Professor Kent sighed. “I think within most narratives, you will find the thoughts and beliefs of the author. Whenever you hear a story about villainous women, you should ask who’s telling the story. Medea’s tale has been told and retold a dozen times, but always by men who seem to revel in her heinous actions without addressing what caused it. Sometimes her story is used to showcase women as crazy, unpredictable, or vindictive.” She sounded thoroughly irritated.

“I’ve been reading the stories, and it’s weird to me that a fictional character—”

“Not fiction.”

I paused. “Wait. What’s not fiction?”

“Medea,” said Professor Kent. “She’s not a fictional character. Not entirely, anyway. Many of the stories we’ve thought of as fiction have been proven to have a basis in reality. It’s the same for Medea. There are contemporary accounts of a woman who fits her description. She was considered a witch and shared her name and origins, being a daughter of the King of Colchis.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Colchis?”

“Yes. A powerful family in ancient Greece. You said you’ve been reading about her. Not all versions of her story are the same, but she was most definitely the daughter of the King of Colchis. Sometimes that fact is omitted depending on the preference of the author.”

I didn’t recall coming across the name in the books I’d read so far, but there were so many others I still had to go through. “And you said she was a witch?”