The Ruin of Eros

Chapter Eighteen

“Hello, pretty ones,” I say softly.

I have found my way back to the bird-room today. They are extraordinary creatures, and the longer I watch them, the more I marvel at them. Some have long legs that fold up underneath them like dancers; others, enormous bills that drape down toward the ground; others still, extraordinary tails that unfurl like wings as I watch.

They do not seem unhappy here. Green shrubs fill the corners of the room, tricking my eye into imagining I’m outdoors, and perhaps it tricks the birds, too. And yet…one yellow-breasted bird cocks its head at me, looking at me with bright black eyes that remind me of Dimitra. They are intelligent creatures—intelligent enough, I believe, to know they are captives. They may seem tame, but I believe the instinct to be a wild thing lives inside us all. I think even if I lived in this palace for a thousand years, I would still have that instinct etched deep in my soul, the knowledge of what it is to live free. And deep down, I feel sure these birds are the same.

I woke today to find my letter gone from the table. The demon had taken it after all. Whether he means to deliver it or not, I cannot say.

The yellow bird hops over to the side of the cage and tilts its head at me, looking at me with curious black eyes. I smile at it, but I don’t reach out to it.

Pretty things can bite you.

What you trust can turn on you.

I know that now.

I curl my hands into fists, then uncurl them. Perhaps Father and Dimitra are reading my letter even now. Was I right to send it? Should I have tried to tell them more of the truth?

Do not give me up for lost , I think, as if my thoughts could travel to them and speak themselves aloud.

I wander like a shade around the palace for the rest of the day, impatient for the demon to return. Eventually I retire to my bedroom and gaze out of the window—today it shows a lush forest—and wait for the sound of his footstep. When it comes at last, I hurry though the door.

“Psyche.” He greets me with surprise, and I flush.

“You took the letter,” I say. And then, though it sticks in my throat a little: “Thank you.”

But even as I say it, I observe his air of heaviness, of distraction. The way he stands by that chair, his hand clenching the back of it.

“I was not able to deliver it,” he says curtly. “I am sorry.”

I stare at him.

“Not able? For what reason?”

Distrust surges in me. Perhaps he didn’t even try to deliver it; perhaps he never intended to.

“Your family—they are no longer in Sikyon,” he says. My ears ring. Does he think me a fool, that I cannot hear the hesitation in his words?

“What are you keeping from me?” My voice is hot.

There’s a pause.

“It is as I have said. They are gone from Sikyon.”

I sink into a chair.

Can it be true?

“Banished?” I say. “Or of their own accord?” Aletheia’s plate of dry crusts lies before me, incongruous and strange. What use have I for food, now?

“I have no further details.” His voice is cool. Curt, even. He does not care. He is not sorry.

I turn away. My family. Gone . What does it mean? Gone where ?

A panicked feeling rises inside me. No escape plan will serve me now. There is no one to go home to. Not until I find them again. And how am I to do that?

I swallow down the thickness in my throat. “You probably never intended to deliver the letter at all.”

My voice is as sour as my stomach; even my blood feels sour. The demon does not like the sound of it.

“Do not lever your accusations at me.”

“You are lying to me, I hear it in your voice,” I retort. “You think you can blindfold me with your words, too.”

His voice rises. It seems I have touched him where it hurts—his pride.

“I’m telling you the truth. They’re gone from Sikyon. More, I cannot say.”

His cloaked form looks as ghoulish now as it did the night of our first encounter. How could I have placed any trust in this creature?

“You don’t care,” I say. “And why should you? My loss means nothing to you. You know nothing of family, or the bonds of love.”

The folds of his cloak seemed to stiffen.

“And what of you?” he says, his voice like steel.

I look up. What does he accuse me of? I am the one bereft, orphaned.

He is the one devoid of feeling. But he’s clenching the chair-back harder now. I see the veins rise up on the back of his hand.

“ You ,” he says, “ are so determined to be dissatisfied, you turn away from every opportunity. You snub every attempt to please you.”

Snub? Please? I can only stare.

“You say you are lonely, but do you make any effort with those who would befriend you? No: you have treated all of us here to your scorn.

“You have access to a greater library,” he continues, “than any of your poets could dream of, and could spend hours immersed in any subject you cared to know—yet you have not once ventured through those doors, though I have ensured that all of them remain open to you.

“You have a thousand instruments here, any of which you could teach yourself now to play. You have a garden you could tend, but that does not interest you either. You belittle the nymphs for not living more… creatively, but though you have a more exquisite loom at your disposal than any mortal has known, and the talent to use it, have you so much as raised a finger to it?”

“I…”

But he goes on.

“You have endless opportunities here for your own betterment, but do any of them earn a moment of your interest? No: you are too busy locking yourself away in your room, preferring to fantasize about a future you pretend would have made you happy.” He scoffs. “That mortal boy, how would your fate have fared with him? How would he have liked you, once you had been married a year? What freedoms would you have had under your mother-in-law’s wing? We both know you would have been little more than a breeding-mate, used to produce strong heirs and pretty daughters, and nothing more.” He thumps the table. “Why, it is not only the sea monster you should be thanking me for saving you from: it is your whole life!”

I stare at him, speechless, too astounded for anger.

“You know nothing of mortal life,” I say at last, my heart pounding in my chest. “Nothing of what it means to be alive! Nothing of real feeling! Nothing of anything worth knowing!”

I shove my plate across the table, hoping it smashes, and knock over the water glass while I’m at it. The cold water splashes against his cloak and puddles quickly on the table. And I run from the table, and slam my bedroom door behind me.

*

I stare out my bedroom window as dusk sets.

Father. Dimitra.

Unless the demon is lying, they are gone from our home. But why?

They thought me dead. It was too painful, perhaps, to remain in our home after what happened there. But could they afford to leave? Corinth is the nearest great city, but would it care for two Sikyonian migrants? Corinth has not always had warm relations with us. Perhaps they have set out for Caphyae, then, or Argos…

I shake my head. How am I to guess at their path? And what am I to do now, when I break free of this place; where do I run to?

If only I had got the letter to them sooner .

But now my family are gone: sand through my fingers. I lie on the bed and stare at the darkness over the forest, and if tears come instead of sleep, I let them.

My dreams, when they come, are cruel. I see my father as an old man, walking on a high mountain pass as the wind batters and wrenches at him and he falls to his knees. I see our old horse, Ada, struggling through a great flood, her legs pushing gamely even as she sinks, while Dimitra calls hopelessly to her from the shore. I see fire and ash, and terrible things.

When I wake, I don’t leave my bed. I watch the sun get higher, and then, finally, lower. When a knock comes at my door I ignore it. But the door opens anyway. I turn quickly, but it’s only Aletheia. She carries a tray, with a platter of bread and a pitcher of water.

Quietly, she places it on a side table. I look at her; she looks back at me.

“He is not here tonight,” she says, as though I had asked. But I didn’t. I refuse to.

“He said to tell you, he still searches.”

I stare at her then.

He still searches?

The message is clear enough. And am I to believe it—that after last night, he still looks for my father and sister?

“He told you that?”

She nods, her dark eyes roving over me. I think of what the demon said last night. Does Aletheia think I scorn her? Since the first, I thought that beady gaze was full of hate for me. Is it possible I was wrong?

I hesitate.

“Thank you for the bread and water.”

She betrays no sign of having heard my words at first. She ignores me, I think. But then she taps a knuckle against her chest—a small, brief gesture that I recognize. It is a sign my people make to invoke courage. Strong heart , it means.

A sign of encouragement? Of…sympathy?

But she is already gone, leaving only the tray of bread and water, and my startled gaze on the closed door.

*

The demon does not return the next day, nor the day after that. I eat alone, in my room. During the days I roam the palace, learning every twist and turn of its hallways. He has taken the horses for his carriage, it seems: all four are gone from their stalls now. Which means Aletheia does not take the key downstairs in the mornings. Where she hides it, I don’t know.

In the mornings she leaves some bread and water in the great-room for me, and in the evenings, the same on a tray in my room. During the days I sometimes go to the gardens, but I do not see the nymphs again—whether by coincidence or because they avoid me, I can’t tell.

I explore another place, too.

When I open the door to the weaving-room, awe hits me afresh. The loom is as tall as a statue and delicate as a lyre—truly an object fit for the gods. Sunlight streams in and turns the veined wood gold in parts.

I am not so haughty as the demon thinks. I do not scorn this place—its rooms of libraries, dazzling gardens, or magnificent loom. How could I? But it’s true, I have not let myself touch anything, or enjoy the slightest of its offerings, as if to do so would be a concession. As if I would be submitting to my fate here.

Now, if I am to believe what Aletheia says, the demon may bring word for me soon of my family’s whereabouts, but how soon, I cannot guess. It strikes me that, since I may be here a while, it would be no bad thing to practice my arts a little, if I can. If the time must pass, it had better pass well than badly. Besides, if— when —I do escape this place, I will be alone in the world, at least for the start of my journey. I will have to live on my skills. So why not practice them?

I go and stand in front of the loom. I am almost afraid to touch it. Almost, but not quite. When I run my fingers over the wood, it is as if I hear music.

I go to the back of the room, where spools upon spools of silk lie waiting. I select my colors one by one. The gold, for how it glints and shimmers. And the red—an irresistible, luscious shade. And white—I have never seen weaving-silk of such a pure, alabaster white. I tease out a thread and run it between my fingers.

Then I thread the loom carefully, and begin.