Page 26 of The Ruin of Eros

“What,” I say slowly, “doyouget out of it?”

Chapter Eleven

There’s a long pause.

I hear him swallow more wine, and then the abrupt sound of his seat being pushed back.

“Come,” he says abruptly. “Seeing as you are not hungry, there is no need for us to linger.”

I hesitate, then feel his hand under my arm, and push back my chair. His hands are stronger than Aletheia’s, much stronger, as he helps me to my feet. So close, the scent of him washes over me again: pine and cedar and myrrh; forests under the moonlight.

He leads me across the room, but not in the direction of my bedroom.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you I would take you to the gardens, did I not?”

There’s a rustling, silken sound.

“You may remove the blindfold now,” he says, his voice a shade more muffled than before, and I realize he’s donned his cloak again. But instead of ripping the blindfold from my eyes, I move nervously. To my surprise, the piece of silk unknots with perfect ease, dropping freely into my hand. Was I right to believe it was enchanted?

I blink around at where we are. The torches in the corridor are brighter now, and seem to flicker harder as he passes underneath them. Shadows dance along the walls. His stride is long and he makes no efforts to modify it for me.

“Tell me something,” I pant, keeping pace beside him. “The window in my bedroom. When I woke today it showed a sea—then earlier, a forest. I don’t understand.”

His hood flicks briefly toward me, but his pace doesn’t slow.

“The windows are not real windows. What you see through them is an artifice—like a mural. You can conjure other images, if you wish.”

Illusions.I suppose I should not be surprised.

I follow his fast step down the corridor; his black cape makes me feel I am chasing shadows. As he swings along one turn and then another I try to memorize the way.Arethe doors in different places than they were before? I can’t tell, but it seems to me I did not come this way before. Finally we come to the end of a corridor and a great double-door. He unbolts it and swings both panels wide, and a soft twilight floods in, turning the marble walls of the corridor a glowing lilac shade. He steps out, beckoning me to follow.

I do, and my mouth drops open.

Itisa garden—but the wordgardenseems ludicrous to describe this place. For one thing, it’s enormous. The grounds seem to roll out in a lush infinity, and if there are walls at the far end of this exquisite land, I don’t see them. I see trees, pathways, vines and flowerbeds, profusion everywhere, all under a soft evening sky streaked with pink. In the middle-distance a crystalline pond reflects the sky, waterlilies shifting gently on its surface.

“How far does it go?” I say, my eyes still on the horizon.

“Far. But you need not worry—all of it is my domain, shielded from the eyes of the gods. You may wander here at will.”

He makes it sound so exposed, as if in the mortal world, the gods are watching our every move. Can they really care that much about us? Will Aphrodite really be looking for me even now?

“Come.” He leads me along the nearest pathway, and the wonders of the garden only increase as we walk. The leaves onthe trees glisten like jewels; on many of them, blossoms and ripe fruit bloom together.

“You like it?” he says. He’s watching me, I can tell. The black cloth shimmers slightly as he moves. I think I am starting to be able to decipher the language of his body, even despite the cloak—I can read the movements in his shoulders, the tilt of his head. And I can tell that he’s looking at me, and that this time, it’s not with mockery. He’s curious, perhaps, to see the effect of this place. He probably doesn’t remember what it felt like to walk these fields for the first time.

“It’s beautiful,” I admit. “I thought only the gods lived like this.”

If I had imagined Mount Olympus in my dreams, it might have looked this way. Perhaps there are plants here that bloom with the nectar of the gods; perhaps there are rivers that flow with ambrosia.

“Aletheia tends it now,” he says. “But she is growing old. Perhaps you can care for it. Would you like that?”

“Does such a garden even need tending?” It seems to me its growth must be enchanted. The plants are too perfect, nothing is amiss or decaying. In my world, it would surely take an army to maintain such a place.

He turns his head.

“I suppose it does not need it, exactly,” he admits. “But it welcomes it. Every living thing responds to every other living thing. The earth will welcome your touch, Psyche.”

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