Chapter Seventeen Hera
Chapter Seventeen
Hera
There was no view quite like the one from Hera and Zeus’s dining room, which occupied a corner of their fortieth-floor penthouse.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered dramatic vistas of Central Park as well as the southern half of Manhattan, including the gleaming spire of the TWL office building.
And of course, the room itself was exquisite, with a massive oak table and a gleaming Louis XIV sideboard—in this case, one formerly owned by the Sun King himself.
The frescoed ceiling overhead had been imported from Greece, lifted here by a crane, and painstakingly reinstalled by a team of specialists.
The whole operation had stopped traffic on Seventy-Second for a day.
Hera glanced around at her perfect room: at the crystal sconces on the walls, the silver platters of fresh berries and scones. It didn’t feel quite so perfect as usual. Julia was here—and Hera was beginning to find the woman’s presence increasingly unnerving.
She glanced at her husband, but Zeus was staring down at The Wall Street Journal, indifferent to the mortal.
He clearly hadn’t tried to use any magic on her, or he would have been just as alarmed as Hera.
“Your dining room is lovely, Tara,” Julia said into the silence. She didn’t seem bothered that Ares had left her alone with her future in-laws. With a glance upward, she added, “Especially the ceiling! It reminds me of one I used to visit with my tour groups, on Samos.”
That was another thing Hera didn’t like about this mortal: She was far too observant. Ignoring the comment about the fresco, Hera said simply, “I find great joy in setting a beautiful table.”
Julia nodded in agreement. “That’s a Martha Stewart quote, right?”
Next to Hera, Zeus turned a page of the newspaper and snorted back a laugh. They both knew that if Martha had said that, it was only because Hera had prompted her to.
Hera watched, incredulous, as Julia reached for a slice of toast and buttered the entire thing at once.
Then she bit into it, as if it were a slice of pizza!
Hadn’t anyone taught this woman the proper way to eat toast: breaking off one ladylike segment at a time, then buttering that individual piece before popping it into your mouth?
Only a complete Neanderthal would slather butter over the top like that.
Things like buttered toast were meant to be savored. But mortals were always rushing from one thing to the next, as if determined to cram as much as possible into their time on earth. Even now, the minutes of Julia’s life were relentlessly, quietly, ticking away.
Unless Ares got what he wanted and found a way to keep her among them forever.
“Good morning.” Ares strode into the dining room, his hair still wet from a shower. He came over to kiss his mother on the cheek, then took the seat next to Julia.
How did Julia not feel it—the divinity crackling off him like lightning, the sheer force of his otherworldliness?
“Thank you again for letting us stay here,” Ares began.
Hera forced herself to smile. “Of course! What else is family for?”
“We have some exciting news.” Ares spooned a hearty helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “We found a place in the West Village yesterday, so we’ll be moving tomorrow.”
“You’re moving in together,” Hera repeated flatly. “Before you’re married.”
Julia flushed at that, self-consciously, or perhaps in anger, Hera couldn’t tell.
“I know we’re hitting the steps in a nontraditional order, Mother, but I promise you that we’ll hit them all in the end. That’s the most important thing,” Ares replied hurriedly.
Hera bit back her protests and nodded, peeved at the way Julia shot Ares a grateful look.
Zeus folded his newspaper with a loud rustling of pages. “The West Village?” he asked dubiously. “Why not just rent in the neighborhood?”
Ares tactfully ignored his father’s suggestion. “It’s on Grove and has gorgeous views of the water from the roof deck.”
“Wait, there’s a roof deck?” Julia cut in.
A smile played around Ares’s lips. “We didn’t make it up there last night.”
Julia’s expression made it abundantly clear why they had forgotten to see the roof deck. She quickly tried to deflect attention. “Harry was so thoughtful! He ordered Thai food and we had an impromptu picnic, sitting right there on the floor, just like the night we moved in together in New Zealand.”
“How sweet.” Hera stole another glance at her husband. Surely Zeus, like Hera, realized what Ares had done—bringing a human into a new home, serving her food, sharing the marriage bed (with or without a literal bed).
He had sanctified their home together, warded it from the other gods.
That was the thing about ancient magic; it was usually quite simple.
“That’s not all,” Ares added proudly. “Julia is starting a new job on Monday.”
Hera tried to feign interest. “Oh, really? Where?”
“One of my former professors runs an art gallery in Chelsea. It’s called LM Gallery,” Julia explained.
“I wish I’d known you were looking for something in art; I just had lunch with Bradley last week. He’s always hiring at the museum. Most of the openings are in development, but that’s not so different from sales.”
At last, Julia seemed impressed. “You don’t mean Bradley Williams at the Met?”
“He’s an old friend,” Hera said simply. When you’d donated as much as she had over the years, you were entitled to call the museum director a friend.
Julia hesitated as if tempted, then shook her head. “Thank you for offering, but I’ve already accepted the gallery position. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to call upon your personal connections for me.”
Was Hera supposed to be impressed by this statement? As if Julia wasn’t going to call upon Hera and Zeus’s social network for her measly little gallery job, peddling what were likely unimpressive works of modern art.
Her eyes drifted to the engagement ring on Julia’s finger. She didn’t understand what she had done wrong, but the magic wasn’t working.
When Martin had taken the ring away to “clean” it, he had actually replaced one of the small stones with an enchanted relic—the Eye of Argos. It always took the form of a stone but could shrink or grow in size depending on how Hera needed to set it: in a ring, a watch, a diadem.
The Eye of Argos should have given her a glimpse into Julia’s mind.
Not in the way that mortals depicted mind-reading on television, as if you were eavesdropping on someone’s internal stream of consciousness, but more like a magical mood ring.
Once a mortal slipped it on, Hera could sense their changes in emotion: their outrage, their joy, their fear.
She’d been eager to deploy it on Julia and discover how the mortal really felt about Ares.
But now, the Eye of Argos emitted an eerie silence. The spell had failed.
Hera wasn’t sure yet what this meant, but she didn’t like it.
“Mother,” Ares chimed in, “you’ll have to visit Julia at the gallery once she’s started. Surely you’re in need of some new artwork?”
Julia looked at Hera in alarm. “Please, don’t do that. I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to buy anything.”
Here she was, acting again like she didn’t care about the money or connections. Hera was growing weary of Julia’s loud self-righteousness.
“I was thinking of redecorating the guest cottage at the Hamptons house,” Hera conceded. No way would she commit to buying a new piece for the main Hamptons house, let alone this penthouse. She had no idea what garbage this gallery even carried.
“I didn’t realize you had a Hamptons house,” Julia remarked, glancing from Hera to Ares. “Harry had mentioned a place in Sun Valley, but I wasn’t sure….”
Hera was hardly inclined to give this mortal a full accounting of their real estate holdings.
There were ski houses (Telluride, Sun Valley, Val d’Isère); there were apartments in cities around the world (Mexico City, Shanghai, the New Orleans Garden District); there were beach houses (Mayakoba, St. Bart’s—they’d just sold Mustique, no one who was anyone went there anymore) and country houses (Tuscany, Carmel, the winery in Calistoga).
In the UK alone they owned a house in Mayfair, a castle in Scotland, and a sprawling estate in the Cotswolds, purchased from a marquess who’d fallen on hard times.
“We’ll go to the Hamptons house soon,” Hera promised, an idea forming. “You know what, why don’t we throw you two an engagement party there?”
Julia shook her head. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but a party is the best way to bring families together!”
Not to mention that at parties, people lowered their guard, revealed their true selves. People acted foolishly and were easier to trick.
“That’s a lovely offer, Mother, but the Hamptons isn’t really our scene,” Ares said hastily.
“What is, then?” Zeus asked.
Everyone looked at him in surprise, and he pressed on. “What is your ‘scene’? New Zealand? Or perhaps Europe? Because I quite agree with you,” Zeus said pleasantly. “The Hamptons have gotten overcrowded.”
That wasn’t what Ares had meant, and they all knew it, but there was a note of finality in Zeus’s tone that made even the mortal woman fall silent. When Zeus made a decree from on high, everyone followed.
“Julia’s best friend, Abby, lives in London,” Ares offered, after a beat. When Julia started to shake her head, he cast her a pleading glance.
Hera gritted her teeth in a smile. “It’s settled, then! I haven’t entertained in London in far too long. I’ll call Norman right now and see when he’s free to cater.”
Julia visibly swallowed back a protest, then nodded. “That’s so generous of you, especially given everything you’re doing for the wedding.”
Zeus rose as if all this talk of parties and engagements had bored him. “Well, I’m out. Time to head to the office. Harry, you coming?”
“I’m actually on site in Delaware today.”
“Oh, right. The power plant?” Zeus looked at his son with interest for the first time that morning. “Call me if you have any issues sorting it out.”
“Thanks, but I should be all good,” Ares assured his father.
As her husband walked to the door, Hera stood. “Actually, Bruce, could I catch a ride with you? I’ve been meaning to stop by Bergdorf’s.”
Julia made a show of checking her watch—a plastic sport watch that made her look like a teenager. “Is Bergdorf’s open before ten?”
The nerve of this woman, challenging her openly like that. Hera met Julia’s gaze, and the two women stared at each other for a beat. Julia’s reflection flickered in the windows behind her, making her appear oddly sinister.
Zeus was the one who answered. “Probably not for other clients, but my wife has never been restricted to normal shopping hours.” He held out an arm, suddenly chivalry itself. “Shall we?”
When they were downstairs and in the backseat of the waiting town car, Hera turned to Zeus. “Thank you for backing me up on the engagement party.”
“Hmm?” Her husband settled himself next to her, already scrolling through emails on his phone. He let out a little huff of annoyance. “I forgot I’m having drinks at Jean-Georges tonight. They won’t let me in without a tie.“
Hera rolled her eyes affectionately, already digging through her purse.
“This is why you should always wear a tie, even if the rest of the world has given up on proper business attire.” She pulled out a bobby pin and held it between thumb and forefinger.
Power sizzled pleasantly through her veins as the small hairpin lengthened, transforming into a silk Ferragamo tie.
“Blue, do you think, or gray?” She held the tie to Zeus’s throat, letting it flick back and forth between the two colors.
“I defer to you,” Zeus insisted. Blue, Hera decided, and the tie settled into its new color. She tucked it through her husband’s collar and tied it with swift, practiced movements.
“Thanks.” Zeus glanced back at his phone, then seemed to remember something. “Should I really drop you at Bergdorf’s, or are you going somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else.” Hera waited for her husband to ask more questions, but he just nodded and returned to his emails. His palm slid onto her thigh in a gesture that was both affectionate and casually proprietary.
Hera glanced at the tie, satisfied by her handiwork. There clearly wasn’t a problem with her magic. So why couldn’t the Eye of Argos tell her anything about Julia?
Hera had considered the possibility that Julia might be a demigod but ultimately rejected it. Demigods felt different. You could sense the divinity kindling within them, hot like a flame. Perhaps Julia was being shielded by some other god. Or, more troubling still, by the Fates.
There was one way to force Julia’s secrets out of her, one far more effective—not to mention riskier—than the Eye of Argos. But Hera never liked asking Apollo for favors. He was so pretentious about it, so self-righteous. She promised herself that she would do so only as a last resort.
In the meantime…when it came to dirty little secrets among the gods, she knew precisely who to ask.