Page 22 of The Ruin of Eros

“You are not to see my face—now, or ever.”

I stare. I do not wish to be blindfolded. Besides, however bad it is, whatever’s under that cape, it would be better to know than live with horrible imaginings.

“And why should that be?” I challenge. “Are you Medusa’s counterpart, then? Is your head made of snakes? I hear no hissing.”

He sighs, as though addressing a child.

“No, Psyche. I am no Gorgon, as you surely know.”

“Then why may I not look upon your face?” I demand. I knew it: he keeps me from seeing him, not for my protection, but for his own vanity. For power. He does not want me to know how ugly he is.

He does not hurry to answer.

“Think of it as a test,” he says finally.

“A test of what?”

“Obedience.” It seems to me there is a touch of humor in his tone, but I see nothing funny here. Nothing funny in being bound to an oath I never wished to swear. My throat feels dry.

“But how am I to live here…and never see you?”

“You must,” he says simply. “I will not risk anything else.”

My thoughts spin. Is this really to be my life? To live with a faceless host, and spend my days blindfolded? And what risk can he mean? There is nothinghecan fear fromme.

“It is only for the evenings,” he says lightly, as if it’s no imposition at all. “During the day I will be absent and you may do as you please.”

“But…” I step backwards. “I can go to another room while you are here. You will have your privacy…”

“No. I request your company at my dinner table.” His tongue lingers on the wordrequest, as if I could doubt that this were anything but an order.

“Aletheia?” he says.

The old woman hands over the black cloth.

“Hold still,” he commands. I want to argue, but I’m too disoriented by all he has just said. What is it he doesn’t want me to see? Why go to such lengths to hide it?

The black silk slides down my face, settling over my eyes, blocking out the world. My eyes fight against the darkness, straining for light, and my mind fights too, like an animal refusing to be caged.

I will myself not to panic, then gasp involuntarily as the blindfold tightens, pulling hard against my eyes as he fastens the knot. Perhaps the blindfold is enchanted, too: the darkness is absolute, denser than the darkest night. And something tells me that if I tried to slip the knot myself, I would find it as stubborn as that iron gate.

“Breathe,” he tells me.

He said that before.Memories rear up in my mind again, as if the darkness sharpens them. I remember his black wings, the rush of air on my bare skin—and that voice, telling me to breathe.

I grimace.

I breathe, but not at your command.

“Good. Now Aletheia will give you her arm. She will lead you upstairs.”

I feel her bony grip on my arm—not hard, but not gentle—and then she moves away, pulling me with her. I have the terrible sense of stepping off a ledge, as though the next time I place my foot down it won’t find the marble floor, but a void to plummet into. A memory rushes up of Dimitra and me as children, playing at leading each other blindfolded around the house. It always gave me vertigo. Father had an explanation.

It’s not the threat of falling which makes us afraid,he said. It’s fear of the unknown.

Dimitra had pulled a face at that.

I’mnot afraid of the unknown, she’d said. She was right.

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