Chapter 3 #2
In the days that follow, I summon the Horae, and before long my heavenly apartments are ringing with their chatter—the Graces who came at Zeus’ behest absorbed into the clamor of girlish voices without a moment’s hesitation.
I hug Auge, Hesperis and Dysis in greeting. “I know you’ll be glad to be back on Olympus,” I say to Auge. “Have you seen Iris yet?”
Hesperis and Dysis nudge her and she smiles.
“I have,” she says, her eyes sparkling. It seems like forever ago that I first thought to introduce her to Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, and, as always, my instinct about those two wasn’t wrong.
“But you all already know about me and Iris; who else has news to share with us?”
Pasithea, the youngest of the Graces, is coaxed into telling us how Hypnos, God of Sleep, has caught her eye.
“There’s nothing to say,” she protests, half laughing, but her eyes are soft and luminous with daydreams. “I just thought he was handsome.”
“He is!” I agree, twisting around to look at her. Auge, who is trying to arrange my hair, sighs as jeweled pins tumble down onto the quartz surface of the table, and I squeeze her fingers in apology. “Never mind about my hair—I want to hear more.”
Hesperis sets down the little pot of rouge that she was about to apply to my face and perches on the shining surface, all of us looking expectant.
“I liked the way he talked.” Pasithea shrugs, a delicate flush rising in her cheeks.
I feel wistful watching her, the freshness of her youth and the air of romance that haloes her.
There is something so irresistible about it: the sense of her yearning and the sharp sweetness of a not-yet-realized fantasy.
I remember the last time I saw Hypnos. “Everything he says sounds like a beautiful story,” I reply, recalling the rumbling timbre of his voice.
“Something comforting and familiar but new at the same time.” He could carry a listener away on the wings of that voice until they spiraled into another world, lulled by his rich, deep tones, a balm for any troubled soul. Lost in a delicious slumber…
I shake myself out of my reverie. This is Pasithea’s daydream, not mine.
“I heard he lives at the edge of the world,” Auge says.
“Between the living and the dead,” Dysis interjects, “on the banks of the River Lethe.”
“What does the House of Sleep look like?” Hesperis wonders, dreamily.
“Pasithea will have to tell us.” Charis’ voice is teasing as she smiles at her younger sister. She’s the most beautiful of all the nymphs, her hair falling like a shining veil. I wonder who her admirers are, and which of them she favors the most.
“I’m sure I can find a reason to summon Hypnos here,” I suggest. Or, my mind races, I’ll invent an errand that will send Pasithea to the furthest reaches of the world, across the silver river, to the meadow of heavy-headed crimson poppies that grow around the cave where Hypnos dwells.
“And, when he comes, I can…awaken him to your charms.”
Pasithea giggles. “Really? You would?”
“Of course. It’s in my gift,” I tell her, “to spark the fire of love in anyone’s soul.”
Charis picks up a comb and starts to pull it through my hair, taking over from Auge. “Perhaps,” she says, “Hypnos won’t need any prompt to fall in love with Pasithea.”
“Oh, of course,” I agree. “I’m sure he won’t. But, if he does, I’m here.”
Charis’ hands are less gentle than Auge’s, tugging firmly on my hair as she twists it to her liking. “That’s kind,” she says. “Pasithea is grateful, I’m sure.” She sets down the comb and steps around to face me, studying her handiwork.
Her eyes are wide and thoughtful. I see Pasithea glance between the two of us, uncertain. Was there an edge to Charis’ tone? Perhaps she thought I was dismissing Pasithea’s beauty. I meant no insult; I’m only eager to help.
I smile at them both. “Don’t worry,” I tell the younger Grace. “He won’t be able to resist you. Who could?”
In the early evening, I catch sight of Auge, perched on the courtyard wall, her face upturned to a many-hued ribbon trailing through the sky.
Its radiance intensifies until Olympus is framed under an arch of glorious colors, before each one mingles into the next and fades away, and Iris lands in a flurry of golden feathers.
The fragrance of rain, fresh and vital, follows in her wake, a scatter of droplets tumbling from her hair and her wings as Auge jumps up to kiss her.
Iris is vibrant and splendid; Auge dreamy like the first mist of the dawn, and, as I watch them embrace, I feel that sweet ache as though I’m one of them, their joy my own.
The door to the forge swings open, and Hephaestus steps out. Shading his eyes from the low sunlight, he looks across the courtyard at me and waves. I wave back, and he smiles.
“To think,” a voice purrs behind me, “that Hera calls him her ugly son.”
Startled, I turn around. “Eros!”
He lands softly on the stone tiles, his wings tucking in behind him. “Most of the gods agree with her, I know,” he continues. “But I think he has a rugged charm, actually.”
“I suppose so.” I smooth a lock of hair back from his forehead, out of his eyes. “What are you doing here? Do you have news of Paphos or have you just come to see your mother?”
“Always,” he says, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “And, as for news, it’s all the same. Your sanctuary overflows every day with worshippers.”
“I know,” I say. “I hear their prayers.”
“But the affairs of the gods must be keeping you busy here.” He arches an eyebrow. “There are always so many.”
“Aren’t there just? But I’m more interested in news of Phaon, if you have it.” I’ve watched him since I gifted him his youth again. He came to my temple to give thanks, and I was gratified to see how handsome I’d made him. I wasn’t alone; I could feel the burn of a dozen stares lingering after him.
But I didn’t see him return a single one of them.
Eros shakes his head. “He has admirers everywhere he goes, men and women alike. But he makes no use of the gift you’ve given him. Say the word and I’ll set him aflame for the prettiest one.”
“No,” I say. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“That doesn’t feel right.” I take a seat beside the central fountain, trailing my fingers through the cold water, and he sits down beside me.
“He’s a good man, an honorable and loyal one,” I muse.
I remember a mortal couple I saw at the temple after Phaon was there.
They were weary and wrinkled with age but still holding hands as they walked.
I remember how the husband looked at his wife of many years and felt a sense of wonderment rising within him at how beautiful she still was in his eyes.
“He doesn’t want a new love,” I say. “He could have taken advantage of his new form and had a dozen young lovers—wouldn’t most men? —but he hasn’t.”
“So he’s ungrateful,” Eros pronounces.
“Eros,” I chide, “he’s not ungrateful. He’s still in love.”
He frowns. “With a woman in a distant city, who must be old herself now, if she’s still alive.” He glances at me, perplexed. “That’s a worse situation than he was in before.”
“It is,” I agree.
“So why don’t you look more concerned?” he asks.
“Because,” I say, “I know what we need to do about it.”
“What’s that?”
“Come on.” I jump up and pull him to his feet. “I’ll show you.”