Quicksilver by Stephanie Spinner

When we flew over the Sea of Cyrene, I urged her to rest and then composed a little tune for Pegasus. It was about mares romping in fields of sweet grass, their arching necks and flying tails. I crooned it to him, and his ears flicked back and forth in enjoyment, which was very satisfying. I like a good audience.
    When I saw the broad shape of Lower Hellas below us, I said to Andromeda, “We’re not far from Seriphos. There it is, to the east.” I pointed. “The small island shaped like a teardrop.”
    “I see it,” she said quietly. Then she asked, “Is Perseus Danae’s only son?”
    “Only child,” I said. “Much beloved.”
    “Ah.” I heard worry in her voice. No doubt she was wondering how Danae would receive her and expecting the worst.
    She’s a far better woman than your mother was,
I thought, but I said, “You two have a lot in common. Danae will welcome you as her daughter.”
    This was true. I saw a brief image, framed by shimmering patches of light, of Danae embracing Andromeda tearfully. This was the way my prophetic gift worked, in bright mind pictures that came and went as unexpectedly as sneezes. I had never been able to summon the Sight, the way Apollo could; mine had a will of its own. Seeing the future this way was more like an irritating physical ailment than a power. Still, I had learned to trust what I saw: it always happened.

EIGHTEEN
    As I predicted, Danae welcomed her new daughter-in-law with much tearful emotion, just as she had in my vision. Then the two women began conversing as if they had known each other all their lives. I tend to forget that all mortal women do this. Whenever I witness it, I am bemused.
    “Excuse me,” I said, cutting short a rapt discussion of Perseus’ eating habits, “I must go.” This was true. Ares would certainly be wanting his sickle by now. “When he returns from the palace, tell Perseus to leave my sandals—”
    “The palace! Is that where he is?” exclaimed Danae with horror.
    “Of course,” I replied. “He’s giving Poly—” I got no further: Danae, clutching Andromeda’s arm, fell to her knees, pulling the poor girl down with her.
    “Lord Hermes!” she cried. “Help my son! Polydectes is a brute! He’s capable of anything. He may kill Perseus on sight!”
    “But he has Medusa’s—”
    “Help him, I beg you!” Andromeda heard Danae’s pleas and stiffened. Then she, who had endured so much that day with unshakable composure, suddenly lost every shred of it and began to shriek. Her awful cries inspired Danae to scream even louder.
    I should have dropped the girl in a tree and kept on going,
I thought, clapping my hands over my ears. I can’t bear dissonance.
    “All right, all right,” I told them, “I’ll make sure he’s safe! Just stop your wailing!” I left before they could think of anything else to cry about and jumped onto Pegasus. As we flew to the palace, I told myself that their fears were groundless, that Perseus, by now an old hand at wielding Medusa’s head, had overcome Polydectes with ease. But I hurried inside anyway and found the throne room as quickly as I could.
    It was utterly silent. Perseus stood before Polydectes with eyes averted, showing him Medusa’s head. Her glare had done its work, preserving every detail of the king’s astonished rage, down to the dangerously swollen veins on his forehead. If she had killed him before apoplexy could, it mattered little now. He was well and truly dead.
    Those few guards who had dutifully come forward to help their master were stone now, too, as were the others in the room: a servant girl bringing wine, a little boy with a finger up his nose, and a man with the weathered face and bandy legs of a groom. Only Perseus was still alive. Seeing me, he murmured a greeting.
    “Well done, Perseus!” I said. “Your kin will rejoice. They await you anxiously.”
To say the very least,
I thought.
    “I am glad that this is over.” His voice was somber, deeper than