CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WE DON’T STOP UNTIL SOMEONE has grabbed Dionysus – still disguised as Theseus – and hauled him off me.
Deucalion.
My brother throws Dionysus against the opposite wall. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snarls, fumbling for a blade at his side.
My parents stand mere feet away, gaping and aghast.
‘Is this an awful time to mention that we haven’t been discussing the daughter I’m actually interested in?’ Dionysus quips, and I watch Theseus’s face smirk.
My brother takes hold of Dionysus’s chiton, pulling him back solely so he can throw him against the wall again with more force.
‘Stop!’ I hurry forward, truly instinctively. ‘Don’t hurt him.’
‘You!’ Deucalion turns, and it is my father’s fury facing me. ‘How dare you show your face in this palace after what you’ve done? You ought to have stayed on Naxos, you awful, meddling little whore.’
‘Look, I’ll take them both if you like,’ Dionysus offers. ‘Two of your daughters held hostage in Athens would certainly stay our hand, don’t you think?’
‘Enough,’ my father snarls, storming forward. ‘I suggest you stop speaking, boy, before you too break your oath of hospitality and give me every opportunity to respond to such treason.’
I glare at Dionysus, trying to get my warning across: Ruin Theseus all you like, but don’t cause a war between Athens and Crete!
He holds his hands up. ‘Of course, King Minos. Let’s retire, shall we – and continue our negotiations in the morning. Phoebe will do.’
‘Phaedra,’ I hiss.
‘That’s the one!’ he says, and then he darts off down the hallway before anyone can say anything else.
Unfortunately, Dionysus running off leaves me to face my family alone.
Deucalion’s nostrils flare, my father’s eyes are sharpened ice and my mother is glancing anxiously between us all like she can sense a brewing storm.
‘Better to mourn a daughter than to allow her continued embarrassment, I think,’ my father says, and his gaze flits to the dagger Deucalion had been reaching for. That was decidedly not the plan!
My brother blanches – but he also squares his shoulders, like he would push on regardless.
‘Don’t you dare,’ my mother snarls, and lights flash in her eyes. I didn’t quite understand what Dionysus meant until now – because it is not a bright bold flare but like the colour itself burns, coal in the heart of the fire, grey sparking and smouldering.
She moves in front of me and my brother steps back – but my father is startled into stillness. No instant rage at her rebuttal, but shock that she might find any at all. That after years of him crushing any spark from her, one still might strike.
‘Please,’ I say – worried he will find that fury at any moment and turn its full force on her.
I step aside, even as she reaches for my wrist, trying to shield me.
But that’s not how this has worked for nearly a decade.
‘I won’t do anything like this again. I’ll be gone in the morning, I promise.
I’m begging you, don’t tell Dionysus what happened here. ’
My brother’s eyes light with relief. Great, he doesn’t want to kill me. I’ll take that. ‘That would be a better punishment, I imagine.’ He arches a brow at my father. ‘She’s sworn herself to a god – let her face the consequences of that.’
My father narrows his eyes. ‘You ought to be begging me for a swift death. Gods flay mortals alive, bind them to flaming wheels and chain them to the ground. Take her to him.’
Deucalion’s grip lands on my shoulders, hauling me along.
I slump, defeated, until we are at my door – he knocks sharply and Dionysus appears, framed by the soft candlelight of my room.
The marks on his knuckles are already beginning to fade but he is dishevelled from the dancing, his chiton slouching off one shoulder and …
it is impossible to look at him and not think about the fact that mere moments ago his lips were on mine.
They’re still swollen, and they part as he sighs his relief.
‘There you are.’
Deucalion pushes me forward. ‘She was found fornicating with the King of Athens.’
‘What?’ Dionysus breathes – more shocked than angry. It’s so compelling even I panic for a moment that he’s somehow forgotten what happened.
‘Not fornicating,’ I say quickly, shoving my brother off me. ‘I’m … ah, sorry, dear husband. We kissed.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh?’ Deucalion demands.
‘Well, you set the bar rather higher – but, um, yes. Still very bad. Terrible news, wife. I’ll give her … a stern talking-to.’ He grabs my arm and pulls me across the threshold like I will be safer there.
‘Talking-to?’ Deucalion asks, blinking between us.
‘Well, to begin with. She’ll regret it, that’s for sure. Thank you for telling me. Goodnight.’
And he closes the door before my brother can say anything else.
‘Alright, that’s a start,’ I say, pacing in the small space. ‘We have the night – what can we possibly get done in a night?’
‘We could kiss some more,’ Dionysus proposes. ‘I’ll turn into anyone you like; however it fits in with your plan.’
‘It doesn’t fit with the plan,’ I say quickly, ignoring the way my stomach tenses. I do not know how to make sense of any part of this night, let alone … that part.
‘Terrible plan, then. Make a new one.’
‘Yes, keep doing that,’ I say, nodding as I trace tight steps about my room. ‘It’s so much easier not to kiss you again when you’re being annoying.’
‘Liar. If it were easy, you’d be able to look at me right now.’
I still, taking his challenge and instantly regretting it.
The cocky facade I’m so used to seeing has fallen.
He looks young, vulnerable – mortal. He is still beautiful, still etched in hard lines and softened again with each ring of gold about his wrists and neck, each tumbling lock of hair.
But he’s looking at me like … like he’s nervous.
Like he doesn’t know where we stand either and as though he needs that answer desperately.
I’ve never seen his expression so earnest or open and something about it undoes me, like with the walls pared back we’re both just as hopeless as each other – because it’s my own fear looking back at me.
I’m beside him before I’ve made the decision to be, am pushing the curls back to cradle that exquisite face of his and take a beat to admire each fine point of it – and all the want drawn across it.
I move closer slowly, enough that he can tell me to stop, that this is a mistake, that we are both too broken for this, too hurt or else too in over our heads.
But he doesn’t say anything – just closes his eyes and lets his fingers ghost across my side like to grab me would be too forward. Like he can’t let himself believe this is real either.
Then our lips are gliding over one another’s, slowly, tenderly – like we are trying to make it last.
‘Ariadne,’ he sighs, like it’s all he’s ever wanted.
Warmth curls in my stomach, a giddiness I can’t alleviate – that we’re doing this, as ourselves, without the performance. Oh, so much of this feels like an exhale: finally.
When we eventually break apart, it is not by much. Our faces still close, our breathing in tandem.
‘Was that alright?’ I ask.
‘Completely.’ He nods.
‘I don’t know what I …’
‘No, me neither.’
I’m still breathing him in: the fresh ivy leaves threaded through his hair and the sweet scent beneath, the soap of the palace. Home. He smells like home – the one I left and the one I found, all at once.
He takes my hand from his face – Olympus above, I’m still clutching him – and he holds it tight. ‘We can take this slow,’ he promises. ‘We’ll keep … talking. Processing. Whatever we both need.’
He holds his palm out, an amethyst shining within. Five more.
That open hand feels like a question I ought to refuse. Like I should make up some reason not to do this because I am so agonizingly scared of getting it wrong again.
But I don’t feel quite so afraid, not while he’s holding me.
‘Slow,’ I agree – and I see that long, meandering thread of time unspooling before us.
Time where we might grow past the things we fear.
Pragma, that particular sort of love wrought with years and sacrifice and understanding that only time can buy.
I take the jewel and twine my fingers with his, revelling in the idea of one day knowing him deeper than I know myself.
A labyrinth rises around us, hazy and insubstantial. The walls float in the air, the ceiling slotting into place above us.
I flinch back, letting go.
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. I thought I saw …’
I’m interrupted by a sharp knock at the window. The window? I rush to the pane, a sheet of thin, translucent tiles. I pull it aside, and there is Hermes, clinging to the ledge.
‘New shoes,’ he gasps, trying to pull himself up. ‘Still getting the hang of them.’
He only just manages to squeeze through, stumbling to his feet once he does, the feathers on his sandals fluttering half-heartedly.
‘Well, I’ve outdone myself. Messages sent to nearly every polis this side of the Caucasus Mountains all within a mere day. I have replies.’ He holds up scrolls. ‘A few dozen marriage offers in total.’
A few dozen.
‘Will that be enough?’ Dionysus asks.
I consider. At this point, I’m half convinced my father will marry Phaedra to Theseus solely to spite us.
‘Let’s assume it’s not,’ I say. ‘We need to bring it all down. Every last brick.’
There is another knock, at the door this time – which is far more practical.
Dionysus reaches it first.
Zosime takes us all in – her eyes flitting to Hermes’s sandals and clearly understanding who it is she’s looking at. The presence of another god seems to reassure her and she tosses her hair back, lifts her chin and declares: ‘I’m coming with you.’
She steps into the room, letting the door fall shut behind her.
‘So let’s talk about what Theseus is truly planning.’