When Pan rounded the next spiral of the staircase, his fingertips brushing the grooves of the oak tree that the entire spiral staircase looped around, he took a deep breath. Be calm. Be unbothered.
Armed with a neutral expression, Pan sauntered into his personal office, the smells of the forest, what reminded him of home, were always the first thing to greet his senses. There were two large windows in his office that stretched to the ceiling, always cracked open to let in the natural breeze (as natural as the smog of the city could be, at any rate). The window-seats, that looked more like white garden benches, were always overflowing with his favorite plants (for whatever best suited the season). From the flowering maples, peace lilies, orchids, amaryllis, and various cacti, it was like his very own garden inside his office. And of course, the ivy, twisting and twining up the bricks of the building, outlined the edges of his open windows, truly bringing in as much nature as one could in a cramped and concrete city.
The Goddess of the Hunt was perched on the guest chair, as poised and calm as ever. Her long black hair was done up in intricate French braids, her skin a pallid, grey-tinge, and her eyes were always the most otherworldly attribute of hers – milky-white irises, that were especially striking in the darkness. As Pan knew, she had fantastic vision (especially at night), and could see for stretches upon stretches of miles. It was strange at first, to see the gods try their way in mingling with humanity, but Artemis certainly did so much better than the others. She wore the fashion of the era, which was saying a lot, since many gods still preferred late 1800s garb (Dionysus was still insisting on a toga, for Cerberus’ sake). Artemis was dressed in a sharp black blazer and matching trousers, with boots of her own design, laced and suited for running, hunting, and whatever else Artemis had planned in her daily pursuits.
“Good morning to you, Lady Artemis,” he said, not warmly, but tepidly. “How nice it is to see you in –”
“It is nearly ten o’clock in the morning,” she cut in. “Is this truly how you employ yourself? Dragging your hooves to work? How surprisingly unbecoming of you.”
Pan gritted his teeth and glanced downwards at his own footwear – brown boots he had crafted with expert cobblers – going through the pains of fitting his hooves into, with heels to accommodate his cloven feet. If anyone had mingled well with humanity, and had to put in any real effort, it was Pan himself. Not that anyone would in the Pantheon appreciate that effort.
“I had a late night, my Lady,” he said. “And I wasn’t aware we had a scheduled visit –I’m quite certain we did not. Either way, apologies! What can I do for you today?”
Pan rounded his desk and sat on his chair, the plush velvet of the seat already releasing some tension from his back. With a quick glance upwards, he sensed it. There were two of the Huntress’s guardswomen upstairs, on his roof. Artemis never went anywhere without her coven of women, personal guards (lackeys), Amazonian tribe, or whatever they called themselves these days. They all bore her symbol (a crescent moon with a piercing arrow across it), over their heart, so they were tied to her metaphysically, metaphorically, and probably every other meta word Pan couldn’t bother to conjure up right now.
“It has been two weeks and 4 days since I sent you my latest picture book – Moon Phase,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s supposed to be a picture book of a girl named Celina who is cursed to imitate the phases of the moon, from full moon, to waxing, to new moon –meaning invisible – to waning crescent –”
“And it sounds so intriguing,” Pan said hastily, knowing he had only skimmed the first two or three pages. “But it takes time to find the right artist to take on such a project! Only the best for you, Lady Artemis. Moon Phase should be illustrated by someone top-tier, not the usual ones we have on retainer! I’m looking for a new talent, you see –”
“Look no further,” she interrupted. “I already know who I want to illustrate Moon Phase. I recently visited her grandmother, you see, and was struck by these watercolor paintings hanging in her drawing room. I could tell by the blending of colors, the brush stroke, that it was a particular feminine touch. There was a dreary sadness in the hyacinths and snow-drop lilies that spoke to me.”
Pan felt lost, but to be fair, he hadn’t had his second cup of coffee yet. “And whose grandmother would that be?”
“Melinoë, of course,” she said. “Demeter speaks so very highly of her. I know she has been working with you for some time now, and I’m sad to say how I’m not surprised that her artistic talents have escaped your notice.”
“I am aware of Mel’s talents,” he said dryly (though true, he didn’t inquire as much about her artistic abilities as much as her snail pace of writing and editing when ‘the mood’ struck her).
“She’s the daughter of Queen Persephone! Of course, yes, reasonable to assume she can draw flowers.”
Artemis’ eyes narrowed, and it made Pan shift in his seat, having those eyes bearing into him like he was a common prey animal. “Don’t be pedantic. It doesn’t suit you to ignore her talents while you’re milling around doing who-cares-what. You should be wholly invested in your publications – this is an influence over the human realm that we still hold, yet that grip is still fragile. I always questioned whether you were serious enough for this undertaking. You have too much of your father, Hermes, in you. Flighty and fickle.”
“And yet, he is the most trusted messenger of Zeus,” he reminded with a strained smile that was curtesy of his father, to seem ‘unbothered’ when in truth, he was very bothered.
“But a nymph for a mother, as well. Of course, I’m sure that Pel –Pelly was an…admirable nymph –”
“Penelope,” he corrected. “My mother’s name was Penelope.” His eyes flickered over to the massive oak tree in the middle of the spiral staircase, that’s stretched up to his home floor, to even the roof of the building. Quickly, he averted his eyes, cursing himself for glancing at it. Not in Artemis’ presence, when even a subtle look or cue was picked at and examined.
“Regardless, I’m sad to hear that I haven’t met your very high expectations, my Lady. I’m sure most men do not.”
“True,” she said with an arched brow. “But you aren’t all man, are you?”
Gritting his teeth, Pan leaned forward on his desk. “Moon Phase will be reviewed shortly. I will have a conversation with Mel about maybe illustrating the book, but she is very busy in her own stories and works that she is editing. I’m not sure she will have time for it.”
Artemis tilted her head. “I could ask her myself. I’m sure she would find time for me.”
“Let’s speak plainly,” Pan said flatly. “What are you insinuating, Lady Artemis?”
“I think Melinoë, and her talents, could be put to better use with me,” she said. “She’s artistic, creative, driven. I’ve read the poems that she’s written and had published from Satyr House. I wish to work with her. She could be my assistant for a time, and then we could work together, even collaborate. I’m sure her mother Persephone would appreciate our partnership. I could teach her many things, after all.”
“I’m not sure Mel is that interested in archery.”
Lady Artemis stood, and dammit, she was tall. Maybe intimidating. Pan shifted in his seat again, hedging for a moment, but wisely kept seated.
“I’m offering a suggestion before it becomes something more than that. I think your Mel is destined for more than sitting at a little desk downstairs.”
“What’s more than a suggestion?” he asked.
“An order,” she snapped, those eyes narrowing into a silvery, steel sheen. “You should know that all too well. The times have not changed as much as you’d prefer, Pan. As a true-born member of the Pantheon, I do outrank you. So does our Melinoë, being the daughter of King Hades and Queen Persephone. When the gods mingle with lesser beings, the gold dulls its shine, after all. You’re unfortunately bronze tier – if you wish to still be frank.”
“I can always trust that you would speak frankly,” Pan said, shaking his head. “But sadly, it doesn’t change things. I may not be gold-tier, as you put it – but I am in change of Satyr House. My magic, and the law of the old ways, dictates that this is my domain. Which is why you, my Lady, had to wait for me in my office. Which is why your huntswomen must wait on the roof – they have no business being here, otherwise. Mel is my employee, and you can’t poach her in my dwelling. I won’t have it.”
“You are bristling in your fur, aren’t you?” she said with the barest hint of a smile. “I can smell it. Your possessiveness is something, to be sure. Well, I didn’t come to poach her today. I came here as a curtesy, to inform you of what is going to happen. It’s her parents that have the ultimate say, as she is still too young by our standards to have full authority on her future. And to be clear, I’m thinking of what’s best for her future. That’s why I’m involving myself. I won’t let Melinoë, her gold, rust in this place.”
Pan fisted his hands, feeling his fingernails pierce the skin of his palms.
“Thank you for the meeting, Lady Artemis. A pleasure as always. I’ll get back to you
about Moon Phase soon.”
“Hmmm,” she murmured, before she turned and made her way to the spiral stairs. Once at the railing, one of her fingers trailed up the oak tree, cracking a piece of bark so it splintered into pieces on the floor.
“Penelope. Your mother was a wood nymph, wasn’t she?” she asked, though it sounded more like a known statement, brushing off the specks of wood from her clothing. Artemis gave Pan another narrowed look before she finally descended the stairs.
Pan leaned back into his chair, staring at the oak tree, at the small crack in the bark, and felt it like it was a crack in his own ribs. No, he thought. She can’t know. She can’t have put that together that fast. No one ever notices. Not many wood nymphs were strong enough to leave behind something, something magical, a piece of life in their death, in their resting place, that could transcend them, that could offer power to the offspring.
But that look of hers. That damned, piercing look. The look of an archer narrowing her eyes on a target, aiming for the bullseye. Waiting for the moment to strike.
“Fuck. . .”