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“I know your powers have grown diminished, since the temple at Sikyon fell.” I look at him. “I suppose it is all my fault. Is there anything I can do, to help you regain them?”

A shadow passes over his face. He doesn’t answer for a moment.

“Sikyon was one of my chief temples: its collapse left me vulnerable, but only for a short time. That alone would not have left me as I am now. Do not blame yourself. It is what my mother has done. She has made the people take her side over mine, forbidding them to worship me.”

I recall the conversation I overheard at the inn outside of Delphi.

“But…does that really matter? Whether people worship you or not?”

He looks at me.

“More than you can imagine.” He sighs. “Mortals always think our powers come from some magic source: nectar or ambrosia, or something in our blood. Perhaps it’s to our advantage that mortals believe such things. But that’s not where true divine power comes from, Psyche. That comes from one source only: worship.”

I stare at him. What he’s saying makes no sense.

“But then…anyone could become an immortal,” I protest.

He gives me an impatient look.

“Immortality is not the same as power, Psyche. A nymph or a dryad, for example—they are immortal. They are born that way. It’s theirischys,their life force. It’s different from a mortal’s. But, while the nymph or dryad may have a little power of their own, it will only ever be a little. They cannot turn a battalion of men into a flock of pigs; they cannot bring down mountains with a wave of their hand; they cannot set whole plains alight or cause a storm that splits the sky.Thatis great power, and that comes from worship alone.”

I frown, trying to absorb what he’s telling me. It’s not what I was taught as a child. It’s certainly not the message the priests give out.

“You mean, even Zeus…”

“Zeus is the most powerful of all the gods, but not because he was born that way.” Eros looks gravely at me. “It is because he captured the favor of the people for his deeds, and they prayed to him in droves.” He shrugs. “His brother Poseidon thinksheshould rule the Pantheon, but he will always be second in command so long as the mortals worship Zeus in greater numbers.”

Thoughts tumble through my mind. It is all so different to what I thought I knew. The gods depend onus—what a new and foreign thought. I think about the great heroes of legend, god-children like Herakles, or Theseus, or Perseus. They wereworshiped, too, in their time. Is it from this that their powers grew?

“So, as my followers dwindle,” Eros continues, “my powers do, too, like a fire burning low. It will not die out—it will never die out—but while the flame is starved, it burns lower.” He looks at me. “But as you see, there is every hope of my recovery.”

“If people change their minds,” I say slowly.If people cease to fear Aphrodite.If they stop doing what she tells them.I think of the oracle’s words:prayer is power, too.Perhaps her words were truer than she knew.

Or perhaps she knows, and keeps the gods’ secret for them.

My mind hums and my thoughts toss and spin. How extraordinary the world is, I think. How many secrets are yet to be known.

He runs a hand over my skin and we lie there, looking up at the green roof above us, the cracks of dark sky outside. Then after a while Eros waves his hand, an idle gesture: moonflowers blossom among the vines, small white orbs glowing in the greenish dark.

“They’re like stars,” I say, gazing up. To him I suppose it’s nothing but a little party trick. To me, a reminder of what power runs through his veins, even now.

He stands, reaching out to pluck one for me, but I shake my head.

“Let it live,” I say. “It belongs where it is.”

He looks down at me, that dazzling stare of his. He rarely smiles, I am coming to learn. And when he does, it is no more than a half-smile, a ghost of a smile.

We have so much to fear. And yet, I cannot help but feel elated, when I see his face.

He flicks instead at the canopy of vines, making the leaves and flowers tremble. They let fall a shower of stored raindrops,cascading down on my bare skin. I protest, but the sensation is delightful.

Eros kneels beside me, dips his thumb in the pool of rainwater on my breastbone, and begins to trace a pattern.

“I hope I will not exhaust you,” he says, his mouth quirking a little. “You are used to the appetites of men. I am the god of desire itself; I am not so easily satisfied. You will have to let me know, if I demand too much.”

Heat runs through me. This is how it is with him—he sates the hunger and whets it again. But I arch an eyebrow at him.

“You will have to tell me, if I exhaustyou.”