Page 50 of The Ruin of Eros

In my room, I toy with the crusts on my plate. The truth is, they taste less appealing as the days go by—more and more like mortal food. I wonder if I’m getting used to this place, after all. If I might be getting stronger, better able to resist it.

I dream the same dreams as the night before. This time he turns his face from me just as I am about to see it. And when I wake, it’s not like awakening from the Sikyon nightmare. There’s no horror, just a strange ache. An ache I’d rather not think about.

An ache that is much to inconvenient to admit.

*

In the weaving-room, these strange and beautiful visions continue to pour out of me—images of spires and temples I’ve never seen; a whole blue-green city submerged under the water. Perhaps they are childhood fantasies I’ve forgotten, places spoken of in myth that took root in my imaginings. Wherever they’re from, it is a release to me to give them voice here. I am in no danger of running out of silk; there seems to be an endless amount.

On the third day, as I ready my tired limbs to return to the great-room and its silence, I hear a sound in the corridor.

Echoing footsteps, firm and sharp.

I wait by the doorway as he rounds the corner. He pauses, as though startled by the sight of me. Then he bows stiffly, just a small dip of his head, like the gentlemen of Sikyon do to the women of high rank.

“You are returned,” I say.

“As you see.”

I have heard that in some distant lands the women are cloaked from head to toe, their faces veiled and bodies covered as if by a shroud. Perhaps in those lands they have learned toread each other’s forms the way I have learned to read his. It feels as if I know his every movement now: the way the back of his neck lifts in surprise when I startle him, or how those broad shoulders straighten from behind when he hears me enter a room. The slightest drum of his hand on the dinner table, or how he presses the pads of his fingers thoughtfully against the wood before he speaks. Now, what I notice is the stiff way he holds his hands at his sides. I read reluctance there.

“You have news?” I say.

“I regret to say…” He clears his throat. “I have discovered nothing yet.”

I drop my eyes. Travel can be dangerous in these lands. My father’s fighting days are behind him, and though Dimitra has skill enough with a weapon, I do not think the two of them alone could fight off many men.

But I must ward off thoughts like these. I must keep my heart strong.

“Thank you.” I stumble over the words. “For continuing to search.”

His head dips low.

“They are beloved to you.” He pauses. “And you to them.”

“Yes,” I say finally. Before, it seemed he only wanted to remind me of their abandonment. Now he offers me sympathy. Is he the one who has changed so much…or am I?

He draws closer to the doorway where I stand. It does not escape him, I’m sure, that he has found me in the weaving-room. I wonder if he is remembering the last conversation—argument—we had, before he left. I see him shift his gaze: he’s no longer looking at me but over my shoulder, toward the loom.

“This is your work?”

I flush. In Sikyon I was always praised for my handiwork. But perhaps to him, it is clumsy and…what was the word Klaia used?Coarse.

“I am out of practice,” I say stiffly, touching my warm cheeks, wishing they would cool before he returns his glance to me.

“But this is no traditional design.” He sounds puzzled. Displeased, even.

He’s right, of course. All our art-making follows strict patterns. The potters make only certain shapes of vases. The vase-painters only paint certain kinds of scenes. It is the same for weavers: we weave the patterns we have been taught. Some are geometric, following a strict order and color. Some are scenes from popular stories, showing patron gods or goddesses. But never anything like this.

The white feathers float in the air, disconnected and without meaning. The blood-red ribbon weaves through it. It looks like what it is: a strange dream.

“I don’t know why I made it,” I admit. “It just happened. I think perhaps I saw it in a dream once.”

He steps past me, his back to me now, and touches the fabric.

“And do you have many such dreams?” I can’t quite identify what I’m hearing in his voice. Not anger, nor disapproval, but a kind of urgency, it seems. But perhaps I have imagined it.

“Not many,” I say. “Not that I remember. I rarely remember dreams.”

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