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“I take your meaning,” he says. “And it’s true: trickery is the nature of an oracle’s speech. But…we cannot know, Psyche.”

He gestures toward the hay, and uses some small power of his to transform it into a bed of feathers. These little tricks cost him nothing. Even in his weakened state he can perform them without strain.

“Come. Lie down. If what she has said is true, there may be cause for rejoicing, but you must rest either way.”

He sounds almost stern. There’s something he’s not saying. I look into his eyes—even now, that shock of being able to see him, the whole of him, uncovered, sends a bolt through me—but he turns away.

“What is it?” I say. “You do not trust our hosts? They have no reason to lie.”

I wonder for a moment if it could be jealousy. Does he want me all to himself? Does he notwantme to find my family?

Eros says nothing, just removes his cloak and takes the fastening from his robe. It falls from his body and despitemyself, I flush. Is he trying to distract me? He spreads hischitonout over the feathers, until it stretches wide enough to accommodate the two of us.

“It’s not that,” he says.

“Then what?”

He sighs, and meets my gaze.

“I fear for you, Psyche,” he says. “I fear for your hope; I see it in your eyes. Even if you are reunited…your family has abandoned you once before. Who is to say they won’t do so again? Perhaps they will not welcome your return in the way you expect.”

I feel as though I’ve been slapped. He knows where my most vulnerable places are. He knows it in my body, and he knows it in my soul. It hurts, to be so transparent to someone else. I can’t hide my hopes, any more than I can hide my desire. I lie down, and pull my ownchitonover us as a cover.

“Hope is no bad thing,” I say.

He sighs, settles a warm hand on my hip.

“It’s late in the night to argue.” He pulls me in close to him. “Psyche…” His hand caresses the length of my spine, and the touch makes me shiver, that heady rush that blocks out thought. Tonight, though, my thoughts are persistent. But then he whispers my name again—my god-husband, my demon lover—and this time I yield to it. I forget the future, and the past. I let the world shrink until it’s just the two of us, and nothing more.

*

A little while later I find myself awake. I hover for a moment at the threshold of consciousness, my mind still soft with dreaming, and at first, I cannot recall where I am. But there are gaps in the thatch roof above us, where starlight shivers through the crannies, giving just enough grey light to make out theoutlines of things, and remember. And then a noise comes, and I realize I did not wake by accident.

I hold my breath, noiselessly turning my head toward the door. Beside me, Eros lies enveloped in the sheet as if it were a shroud. By the door, something moves again.

Someone.The husband—our host. I see the shape of him as he takes another step toward the bed. He is only a few paces from us now. The sheet has pooled below my breasts; I dare not move it to cover myself.

Is that what he is here for? Some voyeurism?

I do not think so. My heart palpitates furiously. I remind myself my husband is a god; that nothing short of the adamantine dagger he keeps under his pillow could slit his throat.But any sharp blade could still slit mine.

A small light flares, and I hover my eyelids low to feign sleep. The man holds the oil lamp high over his head, and takes a final silent step to the bed. But it’s not me he’s looking at: his eyes are on the shrouded figurebeside me. His hand reaches out and closes over a fold of the fabric, ready to pull it back, and uncover my husband’s face.

I shake off the paralysis.

“No!” I shout, but Eros’s hand has already darted out from under the sheet, clenching around the man’s throat with a movement so sudden I gasp. Our host calls out in horror and drops his oil lamp to the floor, wheezing for air.

I gather the sheet around me as I leap from the bed. Eros stands tall, holding the man aloft; the man’s bare feet pedal the empty air, looking for purchase. His eyes are closed, screwed up as he fights for breath.

At least there’s that.

And then his wife bursts into the room—roused, presumably, by all the shouting.

“Close your eyes!” I scream. “Woman, look away!”

I see the flash of her terrified gaze, but something in my voice must get through. She shuts her eyes, though she’s trembling.

“What witchcraft is this?” she whimpers.