Page 80 of This Divine Revelry

‘I can’t promise that, Ariadne. But I’ll try. I’ll very much try.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WE ARE LATE ENOUGH TO have missed the majority of the dining, which is well enough when I’m still not convinced someone here isn’t trying to poison me.

As we enter, everyone stills. I’d expected the same group as yesterday, but there are dozens of people gathered – all men, mostly my father’s advisors and members of the influential families of Knossos, but a few visitors too, and my steps falter as my gaze lands on one: obsidian hair, blunt features and a steadily unfurling smile.

The man from Cabarnis.

The one I’m fairly certain started that fire.

I clench Dionysus’s arm, am about to whisper to him when my father stands and I forget everything else but the fear he inspires.

‘Ah, there she is.’ My father has never paid this much attention to any of the women in his life – has always silenced Mother’s pleas for leniency and ignored the existence of Phaedra and me. It is horrifying to now be the centre of his rage – so much so that it is me he comments upon when I walk through the door clutching the arm of the god I married. ‘We wondered if you hadn’t perhaps left the palace to join that disgraceful retinue of yours, shaming themselves in the streets.’

Dionysus’s grip on my arm tightens.

‘The rites are a holy celebration,’ I say – wondering if I can couch the debauchery as reverent – and keep its condemnation out of his reach.

Father smiles. I catch a flash of teeth. ‘Wonderful. Perhaps you would be so kind as to share them with us. But first, Phaedra – do play for us.’

What?

Phaedra gives a demure nod and swans up to a half-formed stage, her barbitos in hand. She sits on a stool, her knees pressed tight, and balances the instrument across them. In a low, gentle voice accompanied by readily plucked strings, she sings of a bull rising from the ocean and declaring our father king. Of the daughter of a sun god, bent to his whims. Of a gods-created monster, enacting his will.

It is a song of his might, one even the bards might think heavy-handed.

My mother’s eyes are bright, flickering – flames of rage. And I remember a version of her that hadn’t yet been so worn down, spiriting us away to her rooms so she could tell us stories of our power.

When Phaedra finishes, she is met with polite applause – though Deucalion sits beside our father, a scowl deepening with every clap.

‘Wonderful, thank you, Phaedra.’ Father gestures for her to return to her spot beside him. ‘I think we can all agree a talent like that is a worthy prize in and of itself.’

I look to Theseus, whose jaw is tight as he stiffly inclines his head. ‘Your point has been made.’

‘She weaves well. She is trained in matters of court.’

My nails dig into my thigh. My mother’s divine heritage, little more than a way to bolster my father’s glory. My sister’s talents trotted out to sing of his greatness, or to sell her off. Everything we are, bent into pillars to prop up his own power.

‘So if you wish to marry Phaedra as a union between our two houses, I would welcome you as a friend. But I will not be paying you a dowry as well.’

I am not the only one to gasp, and even Phaedra pales.

I don’t know what the laws are in Athens but here a dowry is not simply money given to a groom for the additional cost of housing a wife. It is insurance for her. That there is money waiting if something goes wrong. That if he divorced her, she would not be left with nothing.

We did this. We implied the dowry was a settlement, a bribe to ward off an encroaching army – and this is my father boldly and publicly declaring that is not what he offers.

Theseus’s knuckles are white around his cup but he nods. ‘It is true Princess Phaedra is a notable talent from a fine house. I would be honoured to wed her and certainly do not discuss this solely out of desire for the jewels of Crete. But I would expect a mutual honouring of this agreement – your daughter does not mean nothing to you, surely, to fling her away without ceremony. An exchange of gifts, of prisoners, of tokens of our goodwill towards one another. That is fair.’

No one reacts without first turning to my father to see if he is amenable to the idea, but he nods, smiling, and it is clear he only cared to publicly assert that Crete has paid no one off.

‘Ariadne,’ Father snaps, and I jolt. ‘You have allied yourself with the barbarian god causing havoc in our streets, have you not?’

‘Pardon? No, I –’

‘God of wine and revelry, isn’t it? So there you are, Crete’s own darling traitor. Please, do show us all what we’re missing. What you left Crete to find – your revelries, your debasement. Dance for us.’

I am suddenly aware I am gaping and close my mouth, trying to claim back some sense of poise here. A heavy, warm feeling settles in my stomach. Theseus did not even have to reveal what happened between us to strip me of honour.