Marcie's room was split between darkness and light.
On Marcie's left, bathed in the warm glow of a lamp bought in from her own home, sat Aphrodite, her golden hair illuminated and her delicate fingers laced through her daughter's hands. She had been speaking softly, reassuringly, lovingly to Marcie, but stopped when the door opened, and turned toward Athena and Apollo.
On Marcie' right, Hecate sat crosslegged on an armless hospital chair, robed in black and shadow. He eyes were closed, her consciousness on the verge of here and there. She faced the door, and if her eyes had been open she would have been staring straight at Apollo when he entered, but he was under no illusion that she knew he was there.
"Ladies," he said, and Hecate did not move but Aphrodite did, rising to her feet.
"You came," she said, taking his hand to draw him toward Marcie's bedside, where she lay unmoving. "Save her, please, save my daughter."
"That's what I'm here for," Apollo said. "Unbridled mercy despite the pain she put me through, despite the violence her father -"
"Get on with it," Hecate's voice said, not from her own mouth but from behind him, in both ears, a nasty old trick that cut him off.
"I said I would, didn't I?" Apollo said, to all three of the goddesses, but looked last as Aphrodite, and then took place on Marcie's left. The blankets that covered her were heavy and warm, and he pulled them down so no barriers but the thin cotton hospital gown lay between her diseased stomach and his warm hands, when he lay them both flat down upon her, leaning in close to share her dying breath.