Page 43 of The Ruin of Eros

The demon clears his throat.

“I have been thinking,” he says abruptly. “Although I make no promise of success, I can try to deliver a message to your family as you asked.”

I look up at him. He means it?

“You must not say too much. But they need not think you dead, and grieve you.” He pauses. “You have writing knowledge, I suppose?”

I nod.

“Very good. Aletheia will leave some papyrus in your room.” He glances over. “I cannot guarantee that I can deliver it, but I shall try.”

I sit very still. Images of my family burst into my mind. My father sitting by the fire in winter, telling us stories. Dimitra with her hair flung forward, drying it in the sun.

“You must warn them,” he says quietly, “to keep the knowledge of your true fate to themselves.”“

A lump forms in my throat. At least they will know I am safe. And yet…somehow it seems more like a goodbye than ever.

*

In the morning, I rise early, waiting for the sound of Aletheia’s tread in the great-room. When I crack the door open I see she has the key in hand again. Once more, I follow her down the passageways—I am beginning to find my way with ease, now—and spy on her as she lets the horses out for their run, cantering into the great unknown. I envy them: how I would like to have their freedom!

Although they, too, must come back here after their run is over, to be locked up inside the gates once more. Perhaps we are not so very different after all, the horses and I.

Wife.He calls me that, but I am no wife. I have not the duties of one, nor the freedoms. At home a married woman may be happy or unhappy, she may have many burdens to bear, some worse than others. She must prepare her husband’s meals and please him in the bedroom and bear his children. But for a few hours each day he is gone and she is free: free to walk in town and see her friends; to laugh and move in the open air. This “husband“ treats me elegantly enough—courtly, courteous, he has never laid a hand where he should not, or trespassed upon my body except with those occasional lingering stares I feel from beneath his cloak. But though he gives me finery to wear and a palace to walk in, I cannot roam and chatter in the Agora with others, as even the unhappiest women of Sikyon may do.

I set my jaw and go back to watching Aletheia. I’m looking for signs of distraction. I think perhaps that while she waits for the horses, she may sleep a little, or wander. But she stays where she stayed yesterday, perched on the stone trough, her eyes gazing toward the open gate and whatever lies beyond. It is disheartening. I cannot see how I am to get past her, unless I slip her a sleep-potion or somehow overpower her. But there is bound to be a way.

Back in the great-room, by my bedroom door, I find a scroll of papyrus laid out for me, and ink. It is as he promised—I am to write a letter to my family, and he will deliver it.

I can write well enough, though Father dismissed our tutor when I was ten—Dimitra and I had enough book-learning for two girls, he said, and indeed probably more than Sikyon thought good for us. But when I sit down at the table, my mind goes blank. It seems an impossible feat. What can I say to Father or Dimitra that they will possibly understand? While they know nothing, they can at least hope for the best. Once they see a letter written in my hand, they must face some reality or other—a reality that I decide. If I tell the truth, they will hardly believe me. If I tell them “I am alive but not to see you again,”is that even worse than imagining me dead? If I tell them I am married and living in a distant land, they will wonder how such a thing came to pass—and they will want to visit, they will seek me out...

I am not fool enough to think the demon will not read the letter himself. Which means I cannot comfort them with the truth—that I plan to leave here, and find my way to them again.

Dear Father and Dimitra, I begin, and then sit staring at the page.

Finally I put down the stylus. It is too much. Too many thoughts roaring at me, each one wanting to be heard. Too much weight upon my shoulders. I pace the room a while, then peer out the door, checking if there’s anyone outside. There isn’t, and I let my steps carry me into the corridors again, along the twists and turns until I open a door into fresh air and sunshine. The reprieve I needed, though even now I’m still not quite prepared for the garden’s strikingly perfect beauty. It catches my breath every time.

It’s not yet noon and the trees wave gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows along the paths. But as my eyes adjust to the brightness I see movement where I did not expect it.

The pond is busy with life, and not fish or birds: creatures, lithe and silver-haired, splashing and laughing together. As I stare, I sense movement beside me and look around to find one of them close by. She is beautiful: taller than me, sharp-chinned, her hair a shimmering mass like a silver sea.

“Khaire,” she hails me in the formal way. Her voice matches her skin and hair—it shimmers, yet there is something hard in it.

“You must be the lady Psyche.”

Chapter Seventeen

“We have heard much about you.” She laughs a see-sawing laugh; if I closed my eyes, I would think it was no more than tree boughs moving in the wind. “You must join our little party—we have brought music. And wine.”

What power nymphs wield, and whether they are easily offended, I have no idea. I dare not refuse her. She leads me toward the pond, which close up is bigger than I realized, and busy with a whole host of her kind. I see that not all of the nymphs are women: some of them are young men—boys, really. One or two look to be only little Hector Georgiou’s age, and look at me curiously—perhaps they have not seen a human before, just as I have not seen a nymph.

Most of the younger ones glance up briefly, then go back to splashing in the water. But I see our appearance has caught some interest. A smaller group of nymphs that look closer to my companion’s age move nimbly out of the water and draw near. One smiles, some of the others eye me coolly.

“I am the nymph Eido,” says the one who brought me here. “These are my kin. Well, let us not stand on ceremony.” She flashes her teeth at me and waves some of her companions forward.

They usher me to the bank of the water and make space to sit down in the sweet-smelling grass. The wine is opened, glasses poured.

“We drink to your health.” Eido glances at the others, then back at me. “Our lord’s new bride.”

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