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The girl on the arm of the puffed-up wine god tugs at something in his memory, with her hair like skeins of golden thread and a whisper of danger in her flashing eyes, as though she runs along the edge of genius and madness.
When she speaks in his daughter’s voice, he remembers the babe he dandled on his knee such a short time ago, delighting her with little tricks of light, sparkles and showers of warmth coaxed from the sun, and blinks, baffled, to see her as a woman already; surely her mother was a child for a much longer span of time, he thinks.
“Hello, Granddaughter,” he says to her, voice gruff, and waits, waits for her to turn those eyes upon him, waits to see Pasiphae’s wildness in her, Circe’s fury- and sighs in relief when they are merely gold as his own, sweet and honey-warm and filled with love.