It was an elaborate yet beautiful ritual. Lulled by Thoth's quiet actions, Istara watched, fascinated, as the once-god of wisdom opened various ceramic pots filled with dried herbs, miniscule leaves, and tiny blossoms of flowers and combined them together in a little bowl. From atop the tray he selected a small metal ball with star-shaped holes in it and cracked it open, like an egg. It split apart into two perfect halves. In one half, he tipped in the fragrant mixture.

He glanced up at her as he lifted the lid of a ceramic pot sitting atop a holder bearing a flame, and dropped the ball in. "It's called a diffuser. The boiled water can steep in the concoction without the water becoming full of little bits. It's quite clever." He put the lid back on and pushed a small lever beside the flame, reducing its strength.

"There now," he said, leaning back and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. He folded his hands together, and tilted his head at the pot. "All there is left for us to do is wait until the water has brewed, and then you shall be in for a treat." He looked her over, shrewd. Istara looked away, unnerved by his piercing look, fearing he might read her thoughts. She let her attention drift to his terrace, admiring his profusion of geraniums, a riot of reds, pinks, whites, and purples, the opulent blossoms busy with the hum of fat bees, languid in Imaru's humid, heated late-afternoon light.

"My lady," Thoth broached, the quiet between them soothed by the gentle hum of the bees, "it has been six days since we returned with the cores and since then you have come to visit me every afternoon, yet have said very little."

"Must one always have a reason to visit a friend?" Istara countered with a faint smile.

"With me," Thoth said, dry, "as a rule, yes. You are, of course, a rare exception. Lady Istara," he said, waiting until she pulled her gaze from the geraniums, "anyone with eyes can see you have returned from the pyramids bearing a great burden. You need not carry your pain alone. Perhaps I might be able to grant you some clarity?"

"Hm," Istara murmured, non-committal, lowering her eyes to the brew pot and its little flame, noting the warm, sweet, spiced scent of cloves, and something else, sharp, peppery—what she recognized as ginger. The Imarians made a sweet bread of it, which she had discovered she loved.

Thoth waited, patient, but Istara said no more. Each day since their return she had come to him, determined to find out the truth, to wrest from him the missing pieces of her past, and each time she had left, unable to bring herself to begin—to open the doors to her condemnation.

Around the walls of her isolation, Thoth busied himself with selecting two ceramic cups and setting them before him. He lifted the pot from the stand and poured the bronze-tinted brew. He handed her one of the cups. She held it at the top, the sides too hot to touch, and breathed in the content's aroma. It smelled delicious, a little like Imaru's ginger sweetbread she had come to love.

She sipped. Warm, aromatic spices caressed her throat, soothed her. She sighed, content. It was perfect, just like everything else Thoth created.

"It's called téy," Thoth said, smacking his lips and setting his cup back down onto the tray. He rubbed his hands together. "The people of Imaru may be a little wary of outsiders, but this humble beverage appears to be the bridge which can span the divide." He reached out to straighten the pot on its holder, continuing, "In the lower town, there is a museum. I took the tour. It was quite fascinating. Apart from its various healing properties, I learned there is a téy for every occasion and reason." He took another sip and sighed. "I spent far too much time in the shop. Its walls are covered from floor to ceiling with little drawers, each filled with a different herb, leaf, flower, or spice, imported from every corner of Elati. It is a wonderful place. I was quite enchanted by it. Perhaps Urhi-Teshub could escort you there—"

Tears cut into her eyes. Istara blinked and looked away. Unable to suppress her anguish, she shuddered. A tear slid free, betraying her. She brushed it away, hoping to be discreet.

"No," Thoth breathed, "my lady, forgive me. Please, I cannot bear to see you like this. What ails you?"

She said nothing. She didn't know where to begin—how to begin.

Thoth cleared his throat. "Is it . . . to do with what has transpired between Urhi-Teshub and Sekhmet?"

Startled by his non-sequitur, Istara looked back at him. "What do mean? What has transpired?"

"Ah," Thoth said, his gaze falling back down at his cup. He adjusted it so it lined up with the little containers of herbs. "Never mind. It is not my place to speak of it."

"It is now," Istara said, unable to keep the tartness from her tone.

"Perhaps," he said, "it is a matter best taken up with Urhi-Teshub. I rather thought he would have mentioned it to you considering—" He cut her a look from under his narrow brow, and asked, quiet, "Surely you are aware Sekhmet has been teaching him how to fly her ship?"

Istara nodded and took another sip of her téy. "He has mentioned that, at least," she said. "I have noticed he has been in a lighter mood since we returned from the pyramids, although I had credited it to his learning how to pilot a ship." She set her cup onto the tray. "But I have been mistaken, haven't I? This is not the true cause of his happiness, is it?"

Thoth pressed his lips together. Stubbornness radiated from him. He picked up his cup and sipped his drink. "What would you have me say?" he asked at last.

"The truth," Istara answered. Unpleasant sensations pooled in the pit of her torso as she recalled the goddess of war's nascent territoriality toward Urhi-Teshub the day they collected the cores. Sekhmet was dangerous, an outlier, loyal to none but herself. Over the course of the Golden Age, mortal kings had ended their lives when she had tired of them, none of them able to go on, their lives empty and meaningless without the intoxication of her dangerous games and forbidden glamour. A host of raw emotions welled up—dread, jealousy, anger, betrayal—their ugly weight dragging against the walls of her resistance.

"Only if you will tell me what troubles you," countered Thoth, quiet. "Perhaps together we might be able to make the pieces fit."

Istara bit her lip and looked away. Her gaze strayed back to the bees busying themselves amongst the geraniums. She wished for their oblivion, their simple existence, their freedom. "When we traveled through Surru," she began, low, "vivid images came to me. Memories." She glanced back at Thoth, hoping to see a reaction.

He gave her none. Instead, he set his cup down, calm, perfunctory and sat back, his hands folded together. "Of?" he asked into the lengthening silence.

"Sethi went to Marduk because of me," Istara whispered, reaching out to cradle her cup, its comforting warmth feeble against the guilt engulfing her, the weight of it threatening to drag her into the depths of its bleak tide. "And now we are forced to stand against him because of something I have done. You told me the Creator took my memories for a reason and to let things take their course. I know now what I have done. The Creator showed me."

Thoth blinked. "He did?" He went to collect his téy, thought better of it and sat back again. "May I ask what he showed you?"

Istara gazed into the recess of her cup. Vapors of steam curled toward her, rich with the spice of ginger, making her nose tingle. "I left him for a mortal." She cut a look at Thoth, humiliation enveloping her. "I left him to have an affair with Urhi-Teshub, and for my betrayal, my consort brought Marduk to Elati. After all we endured to contain Marduk, Sethi granted Marduk his immortality." Her eyes welled, once more heavy with tears. One, then another slipped free, slicing their way down her face, hot with shame. "All of this is my fault, and I cannot think how to remedy it. Despite my pleas for guidance, the Creator is silent." Several more tears slipped free. She swept them away, riven with anger at herself and sorrow for Sethi. She looked up at Thoth, broken, anguished.

Thoth looked down and rubbed his hands over his kilt, flattening its folds. "My lady," he began, "I—" he looked up at her, his expression conflicted, troubled.

"No," Istara set aside her cup and stood, unwilling to force him to condemn her. "Don't say anything. I am what I am—have done what I have done." She turned her back to him and pushed the last of her tears away. "You were right to refuse to speak to me of this. Forgive me for having demanded more from you. I committed a terrible, selfish act. There is only one way forward: I must find my way through this."

From behind, the quiet scrape of Thoth's chair against the marble floor. A rustle of starched linen. The gentle, soothing scent of cloves and ginger. He held out her abandoned cup of téy. "Please," he said, soft. "Drink it. I bought this infusion just for you."

She shuddered, stricken by his unending kindness to her—a wretch, a fallen goddess—the cause of the horrors unleashed upon the innocent people of Elati. A wrenching sob shook her. She took the cup and cradled it against her chest, defensive. "Why are you so good to me," she asked, her throat aching, tight, "even after all I have done?"

"Lady Istara," Thoth answered, pausing to take a sip of his own téy, "the Creator moves in mysterious ways. I trust in his wisdom."

Istara said nothing. She drank her téy in silence while the bees drifted from flower to flower, busy, happy, and drunk with life.