They agreed it was important to pacify whatever remained of the gods’ ire and so kept vigil as the altar’s fire burned low, smoke mixing with sunset, royalty rich with wealth but bereft of their last child. At nightfall she poured a libation on the pyre but Midas clapped hands upon its stonework ere Zeus received this benediction. “Be cursed as we are,” he cried in despair, gold shining like their daughter’s memory, gold less valued than their son’s life, gold that rose above the yawning knit in the earth but left in their hearts.