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holy men tried to twist the omens in her favor. If the entrails were so perverted that any buffoon could see their ruin, she might lose the Alexandrians’ support before she’d even had time to clinch it. Then she’d have no choice but to sail up the Nile at once—tomorrow, even—to fight to receive her blessings in Memphis and Thebes, and she’d need a military triumph to prove that the gods smiled on her reign. No, that was weakness: to fear things beyond her control. The incense had muddied her mind—no man would tremble before spilt entrails if his nostrils filled only with ocean breeze.
    But tremble they did. Nobles clad in violet and coral and vermillion cluttered the courtyard, crowding among the statues to assess their peers, each keen to note who had arrived to greet the new queen, and who had stayed away, praying for the Piper’s return. Stone and flesh both, these creatures remained aloof, untouched by the passion of their plebeian counterparts. Whatever allegiance they now pledged, they’d belonged to her father to a one. She hoped their loyalty to him would be as flimsy as his was to them.
    As the sea of tunics parted, doubt nicked her heels. You dare offer your name to the deathless gods? Her mother’s voice. She batted it aside. Why should she be plagued by misgivings? For all his faults, her father had no qualms about assuming the crown—a crown he wasn’t owed. He’d never met a man or god who required his explanation. In his arrogance, he’d even named himself the New Dionysus, the most pompous of the Ptolemy epithets for the least impressive of its kings. And then she was at the altar steps, its ivory gates at last thrown open to her.
    Steeling herself for whatever omens might come, she ascended to the sanctuary. Through the sodden air, she could make out only the god Serapis, glaring down from the altar, his beard and fruit basket trimmed with gold. He judged her harshly; perhaps he could smell her feeble faith. A shadow rippled beneath his gaze. She blinked until the high priest, his seven-pointed star dull in comparison, emerged from the incense-laden mist.
    “Berenice the Shining One, daughter of Ptolemy the New Dionysus, son of Ptolemy the Savior, of the line of Alexander the Great, son of no lesser deity than Zeus Ammon himself,” the voice boomed. “On this day, you stand before Serapis, who is called both Dionysus and Osiris, to be crowned Queen of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms.”
    She bent to kneel; the cold stone throbbed against her bones. In the corner of her gaze, a white heifer jerked her head against the lead. Dragged to her fate, the cow whined, wheezing through her nostrils. Berenice softened; dread rose in her throat too. So much rested on this moment. The twisting entrails might bless or damn her claim. Only the gods could curse her now and cast blackened guts in which any man would read poor fate. And then the city folk might turn against her rule—a woman’s rule against which they might already chafe. Weak, she looked up to the gap-mouthed god, eyes blank, lips parted to reveal a fleshy tongue. Serapis, first among the immortal ones, she loathed herself for pleading, don’t let this priest of men stand between me and my birthright.
    “Great Serapis. We offer you this heifer, the loveliest of the royal herd, to bless your daughter’s rule. We, your humble suppliants, pray that you might accept our sacrifice.”
    The cow strained her neck away from the silver blade; she moaned as her blood spilled to the stone. While her corpse still twitched, a white-robed attendant cut the beast’s belly from sternum to udder, from left fore to right, from right hind to left. Skin peeled away, the entrails squirmed free. Berenice squinted at the pink coils; she could discern nothing unusual in them. Her clenched gut loosened. She’d heard of gruesome tellings, animals missing hearts or guts or ribs, but all the offerings she’d witnessed looked much like this: remarkable only