Page 74 of This Divine Revelry

‘This is why they tell us not to do this,’ I say, wiping away the falling teardrops and only realizing when I see the red smeared across my hand that I’ve taken half my make-up with me. ‘Not to have sex. Not to trust anyone until they’re bound by marriage vows. Because they know men lie. And they know we’ll feel this way afterwards.’

‘Men’s lies are not your responsibility,’ Dionysus says. ‘Don’t punish yourself for trusting. If someone takes that trust and obliterates it, they are the one at fault. And we’re going to make them regret it.’

His eyes light with the type of chaos that’s a peculiar sort of promise. And I don’t know what we’re doing here – what we truly are to each other beneath the ruse, but sometimes in moments like this I wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t do for me.

He would unmake the world for me if he could.

I don’t know how to feel. How to reckon. Maybe this messiness is apt. Maybe all these many conflicting things at once is the only reasonable thing to feel.

‘I’m tired. We should go to bed.’

I wish Charis were here, or Myrto or Opora or Calybe – another woman who might understand the contradictions within myself. I always saw the futility of those rules – the world a trap ready to catch any unsuspecting girl – but I did not realize it was so insidious as to lay its snares within my own mind.

Still, there is a reassurance to Dionysus’s words – that if he does not understand completely, he will at least listen, and be there for me too. That I am not alone in this labyrinth.

Dionysus stands with his back to me while I switch into softer fabric. I wipe the rest of my make-up away, brush my teeth with cleansing powders and sweep my hair into a messy braid.

He doesn’t turn until I’m beneath the sheets.

‘I can take the floor,’ he offers.

‘No,’ I say, quickly – and I don’t want to think why, don’t even want to parse it in my own thoughts in case they slip through. ‘You were wrong before. About me not appreciating hugs.’

It is not as though we have not slept in the same place. There was the tent, on the deck of the ship. But there we rolled to the furthest edges of the space, and now he climbs into bed with me, his arm reaching across my stomach and legs folding with mine, as he arches himself round me and draws me close.

I was wrong before too – when that belt came off and I felt I could finally breathe.

It’s this moment, in his arms, that allows it. Only realizing how tense I’d been when I finally relax, press against him and exhale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IN THE MORNING, I FEEL less vulnerable and far too aware of Dionysus and the body arched around me. His breathing is deep, his arm across my waist, and I yearn to linger there. To pretend I am not fully awake and to enjoy it.

But that feels a slippery slope – allowing myself to revel in the feelings I have growing for him rather than distancing myself from them.

Too broken for more than that – that’s the line we’re using. But that’s not quite it. I’m injured, yes. Unhealed to the point I worry it would only damage him in turn. I need time. I need to feel right with myself again before I volley my heart at someone else. But I am not broken. Not defeated.

Losing Dionysus, though? That might do it.

My heart is fragile, and I need to forge it strong before it can take another blow.

So I slip away from him, and begin readying myself for the day ahead – and whatever that will entail. By the time he wakes, I’m dressed in a soft pink chiton, bound with a corded leather belt and layered with long strands of gold about my throat. I’ve added the suns to my cheeks once more because I cannot afford for a moment to let anyone here forget that I am a part of this royal family, and because the reminder of whose blood runs in my veins and – more importantly – what power that gives me fuels me too. Strange, though – it never quite feels like Helios. There are so many daughters of gods – and none like my aunt, my cousin, my mother. As though each girl has reached through our lineage and snatched at the divinity to form something distinctly our own.

‘So, this is Princess Ariadne?’ Dionysus asks, sliding from the bed and crossing the short space to run a finger along the gold I’ve layered around my neck. ‘The Lady of the Labyrinth.’

My pulse stills at the words – ludicrous, yes, but within these halls, in a kingdom built on a labyrinth, such a title feels laden with power.

There is a sharp knock at the door and I cross to answer it, revealing a servant with a tray of food.

‘Your Highness.’ She nods. ‘Your father has invited you both to a banquet this evening. He is occupied with his discussions with Prince Deucalion today but has said you are free to roam the palace and to find a stationed guard if you need anything.’

She places the tray on the table, and I wait until she leaves to speak.

‘A banquet,’ I repeat.

‘Delightful.’

‘My father doesn’t do banquets.’ My mother wanted them. Pleaded for them. Any form of joy and celebration. There were only the parties on the night of the Minotaur’s feast … and the banquets the night before. ‘He only celebrates slaughter.’