Chapter Text
Psyche in Beastworld
The olive press groaned like an old ship. Psyche put one hand against the wooden beam and raised the other toward the camera.
"And before anybody writes an angry comment telling us that this is not how their nonna makes olive oil," she said, perfectly solemn, "your nonna is almost certainly not using technology available in Bronze Age Crete."
Behind the camera, Lihua snorted. Yawen, crouched beside the press with both hands wrapped around the lever, laughed hard enough that the entire contraption shuddered.
"Don't shake it!"
"I'm not shaking it. I'm laughing."
"You're attached to it."
"That sounds like a design flaw."
"It is not a design flaw."
Psyche caught the press before the shallow ceramic basin beneath it shifted.
"Stop. Stop. You're going to knock the collection bowl over."
Yawen immediately froze. Psyche carefully nudged the bowl back into position. A thin golden-green ribbon of oil descended from the pressed olive paste above. All three young women stared at it.
Lihua whispered, "Oh my God."
Yawen's mouth fell open. Psyche forgot the camera entirely.
"It's working."
"It's actually working."
"It's working!"
Yawen released the lever and threw both arms around Psyche. Psyche shrieked as she nearly went headfirst into the press.
"Yawen!"
"We made olive oil!"
"We've made olive oil before!"
"Not like Minoans!"
"You're going to make me die like a Minoan if you knock me into that thing."
"That's historically immersive."
Lihua's laughter came from behind the camera. Psyche straightened, brushing loose strands of black hair away from her face.
"Are you still filming?"
"Obviously."
"Lihua."
"This is going in."
"No."
"Absolutely."
Psyche pointed threateningly toward the camera.
"Delete that."
"I'll think about it."
"Delete it."
"Tell the audience about the press."
Psyche narrowed her green eyes.
Yawen nudged her.
"Come on, professor."
"I am twenty-one."
"Professor."
Psyche sighed and turned toward the camera again. She automatically straightened. It was an old instinct. Shoulders down. Neck long. Chest lifted. Chin neither too high nor too low.
Giselle had started correcting her posture before Psyche had been old enough to understand the word posture.
Again, ma petite.
Psyche's feet remembered ballet positions before she remembered learning them. Her lungs remembered scales. Her body remembered being four years old in a sunny room in Catania, standing with one hand against the back of a dining chair while her grandmother tapped the inside of her ankle.
Turn out from here, Psyche. Never force the knee.
"Minoan Crete," Psyche began, "had a highly developed olive-oil industry. What we're demonstrating isn't meant to reproduce every press from every site or period. We're using archaeological evidence to reconstruct the basic process with materials and techniques that would have been available at the time."
Yawen gestured toward the crushed olives.
"Step one was making the paste."
"Which Yawen complained about for forty-seven minutes."
"I was crushing olives with a rock."
"Forty-seven minutes."
"You timed me?"
"We have footage."
Lihua said, "We have forty-seven minutes of footage."
Yawen looked betrayed. Psyche smiled.
"The important part is that crushing breaks down the fruit. Then the paste goes into these."
She lifted one of the woven pressing mats.
"We made these ourselves."
Yawen pointed at Psyche.
"She made those."
"You helped."
"I watched you make them and provided emotional support."
"You cut the fibers."
"After you showed me how."
"Lihua helped too."
From behind the camera came an offended, "I edited last week's pottery disaster."
"Pottery experiment."
"Your amphora exploded."
"It cracked."
"It became six pieces."
"Five."
"Six."
Psyche looked toward the camera.
"We don't discuss the amphora."
Yawen nodded gravely.
"It died with honour."
Psyche bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. This was going to be impossible to edit. She continued explaining the pressing process, showing how the woven mats were stacked, how pressure forced liquid from the olive paste, and how the mixture collected below would eventually separate.
The room smelled wonderfully of crushed olives, wood, clay and the faint dusty sweetness of the fibers they had used. It smelled old. Not musty. Old in the way Psyche liked. Human hands had solved the same problems for thousands of years.
How do you preserve food?
How do you carry water?
How do you turn plants into rope?
How do you weave cloth?
How do you build shelter without steel nails?
How do you make light when electricity does not exist?
Something about finding the answers felt comforting. The world could change. People didn't. People needed food and warmth and homes. People made things. Sometimes Psyche thought she liked ancient technology precisely because the problems were honest. A broken spindle did not lie to you. Clay did not pretend to love you. Wood did not smile while deciding what it could take.
"Okay," Lihua finally said. "That's enough."
The camera clicked off. Psyche's shoulders immediately dropped. Yawen collapsed dramatically against the table.
"My hands are dead."
"You said that after grinding the olives."
"They recovered and died again."
Psyche crouched beside their collection bowl.
"Look at this."
Yawen joined her. The liquid was murky, but unmistakable.
"We actually did it."
Psyche grinned.
"Of course we did."
"You weren't saying that yesterday."
"Yesterday the frame kept slipping."
"You said, and I quote, 'The Minoans were smarter than us.'"
"They probably were."
Lihua emerged from behind the camera.
"We're keeping that too."
"You two are terrible."
"And yet you love us."
Psyche smiled.
That part, at least, was true.
They had met at college through a history course that had somehow turned into three students staying after class for nearly an hour arguing about whether experimental archaeology should count as historical evidence.
Then came coffee.
Then a group chat.
Then the first disastrous attempt at hand-built pottery.
Then the channel.
Yawen and Lihua had thrown themselves into recreating techniques from ancient East Asia. Psyche had gravitated naturally toward the Mediterranean. Eventually their interests overlapped. Bamboo crafting had been Yawen's fault. Psyche had initially insisted she only needed to understand enough to help with research. Six months later she could split, smooth, bend, lash and weave bamboo well enough that Yawen had accused her of stealing her specialty.
Giselle had watched their first bamboo video from the sofa at home. She had complained that Psyche's hair looked untidy. Then she had watched it twice more.
Psyche's smile faded.
Six months.
It had been nearly six months.
Sometimes she still came home expecting to hear her grandmother call from the sitting room.
Psyche, your shoes.
Or:
Psyche, don't slouch.
Or:
Psyche, that child has you wrapped around one tiny finger.
That last one had usually been said while Giselle herself was feeding Luna strawberries she had supposedly bought for breakfast.
"Psyche?"
She blinked.
Yawen was watching her.
"Sorry."
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
The answer came automatically.
Psyche stood.
"What time is it?"
Lihua checked her phone.
"Four twenty-three."
Psyche's eyes widened.
"Oh, damn."
"Daycare?"
"I need to leave."
"Go."
"But cleanup."
"I've got it," Yawen said.
"No, you've been here since nine."
"So have you."
Lihua waved them both away.
"I'll handle everything."
Psyche frowned.
"Lihua."
"You two did most of the practical work and most of the research for this one. I'll clean up and edit."
"That's hours."
"I like editing."
"Nobody likes editing."
"I like having control over how stupid you both look."
Yawen grabbed her coat.
"Sold."
"Traitor."
Yawen kissed Lihua's cheek.
"Thank you."
Psyche gathered her bag.
"Seriously, thank you."
"I know. Go get Luna."
At the sound of her daughter's name, something inside Psyche softened.
It always did.
She slipped on her coat.
"I'll send you my citations tonight."
"Tomorrow."
"Tonight."
"Psyche."
"Tomorrow morning."
"Acceptable."
Psyche reached the door.
Lihua called after her.
"Hey."
Psyche turned.
"You did good today."
For a second, she heard another voice. A French-Canadian accent softened by years of ballet studios.
Again, ma petite.
Psyche smiled.
"Thanks."
"Mama!"
Luna hit Psyche somewhere around the knees. Psyche laughed and nearly dropped her bag.
"Oh!"
"Mama! Mama! Mama!"
"I know, I know."
She scooped her daughter up. Luna immediately wrapped both arms around her neck and planted an enthusiastic, damp kiss on her cheek. Psyche kissed her back.
"I missed you too."
"Mama gone."
"Mama had school and work." The channel had started making them a fair amount of money. Enough that Psyche no longer needed to dip into the savings her grandmother had left her, or be forced to cash out the cheques of her father’s blood money to keep Luna fed, clothed and provided with competent childcare.
"Long."
"It was very long."
Luna nodded with immense seriousness. Then she held up a piece of paper.
"Look."
Psyche examined the collection of green, blue and purple scribbles.
"Did you make this?"
"Moon."
"That's the moon?"
"Yes."
"Beautiful."
"That's Mama."
Psyche pointed at a green blob.
"That's me?"
"No."
"Oh."
Luna pointed to a purple streak. It looked vaguely similar to that one light purple princessy ballgown she had purchased once her body had fully recovered from childbirth, so she could feel like herself again. She had worn it to film for the channel and to entertain Luna in their tea parties.
"Mama."
"Naturally."
The daycare worker smiled.
"She had a good day."
"Did she nap?"
"About forty minutes."
Psyche looked at Luna.
"You told me you were going to sleep today."
"No."
"Apparently."
"Big girl."
"Big girls still nap."
"No."
Psyche sighed. The evening was going to be interesting. On the way home Luna talked almost continuously. Most of it consisted of nouns.
Dog.
Bus.
Red.
Tree.
Baby.
Bird.
Again.
Mama.
Moon.
Snack.
By the time Psyche unlocked the door of the apartment she was carrying Luna, Luna's backpack, her own bag, the moon drawing, a half-empty water bottle and one tiny sock that had somehow come off inside Luna's boot.
"How?"
Luna giggled.
"How did you even do this?"
"Foot."
"Yes, I gathered that your foot was involved."
Psyche pushed the door open with her hip. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. For one stupid second, Psyche expected Giselle. The lamp beside the sofa should have been on. There should have been ballet music playing too softly from an old speaker. There should have been a cup of tea going cold. Instead, there was only late-afternoon light spilling through the windows. Psyche swallowed.
"Home," Luna announced.
"Home."
Psyche kissed her temple. Then someone knocked. She froze.
Luna squirmed.
"Door!"
"I heard it."
Another knock. Psyche put Luna down.
"Stay with Mama."
She checked through the peephole. A stranger stood outside. Not threatening. Business clothes. Messenger bag. Still, Psyche's heart began beating faster.
"Who is it?"
The person identified themself and asked for Psyche by full name. Something in her stomach tightened. She opened the door only as far as the chain allowed.
"Yes?"
There was a brief explanation.
Legal documents.
Service.
Her name.
Her daughter's name.
Paternity.
Psyche stopped hearing properly.A thick envelope passed through the narrow opening. Her fingers closed around it.
"Thank you." Canadian citizens had politeness ingrained in them, even when the world was ending.
The door shut.
Lock.
Chain.
Deadbolt.
Psyche stood motionless.
"Mama?"
She looked down. Luna was hugging her leg. Psyche forced her face to change.
"Everything's okay."
It was the first lie. She carried the envelope to the kitchen table. For almost a minute, she couldn't open it. Then she did. The words blurred. She read them again.
Application.
Parentage.
Access.
Custody.
Visitation.
Her hands started shaking.
No.
She read the name.
No.
For one impossible instant she was eighteen again.
Heat.
Catania.
Her father's house.
A summer she had spent years imagining. Her father standing in the doorway at the airport, older than she remembered but smiling so widely that she had dropped her suitcase and run into his arms.
"Papà!"
"My girl. Bambina mia!"
His arms crushing around her.
"My beautiful girl. Look at you."
She had buried her face against his shoulder and smelled the same aftershave she remembered from childhood. For a little while, Sicily had felt like coming home. The volcanic silhouette of Etna. Church bells. Scooters screaming through streets that seemed too narrow for them. The smell of bread. Her father's kitchen. Sunlight against old stone. Eating off plates and from silver cutlery that were older than the country she had lived on since she was twelve. The weight of history.
Fabrizio making coffee in the morning and pretending not to cry because his daughter was sitting at his table again. Then came the knock at the basement door one night. Her father's face changing.
"Psyche, upstairs."
She had known that tone. She remembered it from childhood. The basement she had once been forbidden to enter. Bloodied shirts disappearing into laundry bags. Men who arrived after midnight and never used the front door.
When she had been seven, she had thought Papà simply helped people. At twelve, she had known better. At eighteen, she had discovered nothing had changed. Then there had been a certain young man.
Too interested.
Too familiar.
Too accustomed to getting what he wanted. Psyche had avoided being alone with him. She had refused invitations. She had stopped going to certain cafés. She had started checking whether he was outside before leaving the house.
Then a party.
Music.
Someone handing her a drink. A strange bitterness she had noticed too late. The room tilting. Her legs not obeying.
Fragments.
A hand.
Her own voice trying to say no.
Pain.
A ceiling she didn't recognize.
Morning.
Psyche dropped the papers.
"Mama?"
She couldn't breathe. Luna was watching her.
No.
Not in front of Luna.
Never.
Psyche scooped her daughter up.
"Playpen."
"No."
"Just for a minute."
"Mama."
"I'll be right back."
Her voice cracked. Luna's smile disappeared. Psyche put her gently into the playpen and shoved several toys toward her.
"Mama needs the bathroom."
"Mama sad?"
That nearly destroyed her. Psyche kissed Luna's forehead.
"No, sweetheart."
Another lie. She made it to the bathroom before she vomited. She barely reached the toilet. Her entire body shook. When there was nothing left, she stayed kneeling on the tile with one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub.
Eighteen.
She had been eighteen.
She remembered flying back to Montreal. Giselle opening the apartment door. Psyche had managed one word.
"Grand-maman."
Then she had collapsed. Giselle had held her on the floor. She had not asked why Psyche's clothes were wrong. She had not asked why Psyche had left Sicily weeks early. Not then. She had simply held her. Later came doctors.
Questions.
Psyche crying. Giselle becoming frighteningly calm. Two months later, Psyche had stood in the bathroom staring at two lines.
"No."
Giselle had been on the other side of the door.
"Psyche?"
"No."
The door opened. Giselle looked at the test. Then at her granddaughter. Psyche had expected horror. Instead Giselle had reached for her, all too understanding. Suddenly her grandmother’s utter distaste for the male species made perfect sense.
Nine months later, Psyche had held a tiny dark-haired girl against her chest. A perfect little copy of herself, with not a single hint of him.
"What will you call her?" Giselle had whispered as her finger gently brushed against the baby’s sweet, scrunched-up little face.
Psyche had looked through the hospital window. The full moon had been visible even against the city lights.
"Luna."
Now Luna was two. And he wanted her. Psyche wiped her mouth.
"No."
Her reflection looked back at her. The too pale skin of a cold climate. Green eyes. Black hair coming loose around her shoulders. For an instant she saw Iris. Her mother had looked frightened during that final year in Catania. Psyche understood that now. She remembered arguments behind closed doors.
"You promised me, Fabrizio."
"I cannot turn them away."
"You can."
"You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly. I have three children sleeping upstairs."
Then the crash. Psyche remembered her father's face at the hospital. She remembered asking where Mama was. Where her brothers were. Nobody answering. Then Giselle arriving for the funeral. Giselle, who had been elegant even in grief. She had cornered Fabrizio in his study. Psyche had heard shouting through the door.
"My daughter is dead!"
"I know!"
"And my grandsons!"
"You think I don't know?"
"One child is still alive. The last living piece of my only child!"
"She's my daughter."
"And you will get her killed too!"
Hours later, papers had been signed. Grandmother had become her legal guardian. Montreal followed. Six years of Giselle refusing every request for Psyche to spend a summer in Sicily. At eighteen, Giselle could no longer stop her. She had begged Psyche to stay home and never set foot on that island.
Psyche, too young, too stubborn, too trusting, had gone anyway.
Now, three years later, Giselle was dead. And an envelope sat on Psyche's kitchen table. Psyche washed her face. She brushed her teeth. Then she went back to Luna.
Her daughter immediately reached for her.
"Mama."
Psyche picked her up.
"I'm here."
Luna touched her cheek.
"Sick?"
"A little."
"Kiss."
Psyche closed her eyes as Luna kissed her cheek.
"Better?"
Psyche hugged her and smiled as her vision wavered from unshed tears.
"Much better."
Routine saved her.
Dinner.
Bath.
Pajamas.
Teeth.
One book became three. Luna demanded the moon book twice. Psyche sang afterward because Luna would not sleep without it. Singing had been part of Psyche's life for as long as ballet. Giselle had insisted on both. When Psyche was five, she had hated scales. At eight, she had loved applause.
At thirteen, newly transplanted to Montreal and unable to explain the violence that had torn her family apart, she had discovered that singing gave grief somewhere to go. Now she sang quietly in the darkness while Luna's breathing gradually slowed.
Psyche stroked her hair.
"Sleep, little moon."
Luna murmured something.
"What?"
"Love Mama."
Psyche's throat closed.
"I love you too."
She stayed beside her long after Luna fell asleep. Eventually Psyche returned to the kitchen. The papers waited. She read every page. Then she found the number. For several minutes she stared at it. She could call a lawyer tomorrow. She would call one. She knew that. But she needed to know.
Why now? Why Luna? His kind weren’t enthused about daughters. They only valued sons. Why after more than two years? Psyche dialled. The phone rang twice.
"Hello?"
Her blood went cold. Three years disappeared. She knew that voice.
"Psyche?"
He sounded pleased. She nearly hung up. Instead, she gripped the counter.
"You filed for custody."
A soft laugh.
"I wondered when you'd call."
"What do you want?"
"You know what I want."
"No. I don't."
"You."
Psyche closed her eyes.
"You're not getting me."
"Then I get my daughter."
Psyche's fingers tightened around the phone.
"She is not a bargaining chip."
"She's my blood."
"You have never met her."
"Whose fault is that?"
Psyche stopped breathing. He continued.
"You disappeared."
"I fled to safety."
"You always were dramatic."
Something inside her went absolutely still. Not calm. Something colder.
"What do you want?"
"Come home."
"No."
"Marry me."
Psyche almost laughed. The sound that escaped her contained no humour.
"No."
"You should think carefully."
"I already answered."
"I have resources you don't have, Psyche."
There it was. Not affection. Not remorse. Power. Control. Ego.
"I can give Luna a better life."
"You don't know Luna."
"She's my daughter."
"She is a child you've never met."
"That can change."
Psyche looked toward the hallway. Luna slept behind the half-closed bedroom door. Her little shoes sat beside the entrance. Her purple cup was drying beside the sink. A crayon drawing of three circles was attached to the refrigerator because Luna had declared them "Mama, Luna, Moon."
Psyche's voice dropped.
"You stay away from her."
"Then marry me."
"No."
"I'll ask for full custody."
Fear pierced straight through her. He heard her silence. That was the worst part. He enjoyed it.
"You don't have your grandmother anymore," he said.
Psyche's eyes filled. He knew. Of course he knew.
"Giselle can't hide you now."
Psyche said nothing.
"You are twenty-one. You're in school. You don't even have a proper career yet. You think you're going to look better than me to a family cour judge?"
The apartment seemed very quiet.
"You've been watching me."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"How did you know about Grand-maman?"
Silence.
Then:
"Marry me, Psyche."
Her gaze wandered across the room. Past the table. Past Giselle's old chair. Toward the balcony doors. Several of her grandmother's plants remained outside. Giselle had loved plants. Some culinary. Some ornamental. Some decidedly not suitable for curious little hands, which was why Psyche kept the balcony locked now that Luna could climb nearly anything. She should get rid of those plants before her too-clever little daughter figured out how to open the balcony door. But it felt like a betrayal toward her grandmother. Insurance, her grandmother had called those plants.
Leaves stirred beyond the glass in the evening breeze. Psyche stared at them. She remembered Giselle teaching her plant names.She remembered her father teaching her that almost anything could become dangerous in the wrong circumstances. Or the right ones.
“All medicines are poisons.”
She remembered Yawen laughing that afternoon. Lihua behind the camera. Olive paste. Pressure. Oil.
Ancient people solving problems with whatever they had available. History was dotted with self-made widows. Psyche's breathing steadied. Fear remained. It was enormous. But fear did not have to be the only thing in the room.
"Psyche?"
She looked at the plants. Then at the legal papers. Her lips slowly curved. It was not a happy smile.
"All right."
Silence.
His voice changed.
"All right?"
"We should talk."
"We're talking now."
"Not like this."
He sounded suspicious. Psyche walked to the balcony door. She did not open it. Not yet. She merely rested her fingertips against the cool glass.
"Come for coffee tomorrow."
A pause. Then he laughed.
"You finally grew up."
Psyche's smile became colder.
"Maybe I did."
"What time?"
"Ten."
"I knew you'd be reasonable."
Reasonable. Psyche looked toward Luna's room. Having no choice was reasonable.
"Ten o'clock."
"I'll be there."
The call ended. For several seconds Psyche remained motionless. Then she lowered the phone. Her reflection hovered faintly in the balcony glass. Twenty-one years old.
Mother.
Student.
Singer.
Dancer.
Daughter of Iris and Fabrizio.
Granddaughter of Giselle.
She thought of Sicily.
Her mother's fear. Her brothers' empty bedrooms. Her father's bloodstained basement. A drink she should never have been given.A morning she would have cut out of her memory if she could. Then she thought of Luna. Warm from the bath. Dark curls against her pillow. Two tiny arms around Psyche's neck.
Love Mama.
Psyche unlocked her phone again. Not to call him. She searched for the number of a lawyer. Because whatever happened tomorrow, she would not make the mistake of believing there was only one battlefield. She saved the number. Then she checked the balcony lock twice and walked into Luna's room. Her daughter had kicked off her blanket.
"Of course you did."
Psyche pulled it back over her. Luna shifted.
"Mama?"
"Shh. I'm here."
Tiny fingers emerged from beneath the blanket. Psyche let Luna wrap them around one of hers. For a long while she sat beside the bed. She had spent most of her childhood misunderstanding the adults around her. She had believed her family in Catania was safe because there had been laughter at dinner. She had believed her father simply helped injured people because that was what surgeons did. She had believed her mother's growing fear was ordinary worry. She had believed dangerous men belonged to another world. At twelve, she had learned they could walk through the back door. At eighteen, she had learned they could smile at you. At twenty-one, she understood something else. Being afraid of someone did not require surrendering to them. Psyche bent and kissed Luna's forehead.
"Nobody is taking you."
Outside, the leaves on Giselle's balcony garden whispered against one another in the night wind. Aconite, rosary pea. One made quick work within the hour and the other took at least three agonizing days.
Psyche looked toward them once. Then away. Tomorrow there would be coffee with a monster. Tomorrow there would be lawyers. Tomorrow there would be choices. Tonight, there was Luna. And Psyche stayed beside her daughter until the little hand curled around her finger loosened in sleep.