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Poor old Ada. My eyes tear up despite myself.

Dimitra always loved horses. When we were children, a wealthy family nearby had a few horses, and Dimitra used tomake me go with her to visit them. They would always be there behind the stone wall, as if waiting for her, ready to nuzzle her palm and collect whatever treats she’d brought. I was always afraid they would bite her, but Dimitra was fearless. She was so tender with them—tender in a way she never was with me. She’d stroke their foreheads, whispering.

“Were you hungry? Were you lonely? Hush, I’m here now.”

As if they were the motherless ones, not us.

Oh, Dimitra.

I close my eyes. My sister. My father. What are they doing now?

The door back into the great palace opens, and there’s the old woman in the doorway, frowning at me. She still doesn’t speak, but the look on her face confirms my suspicion that I’m not supposed to be here. She just lifts her hand and gestures, beckoning me.

I hesitate, then step her way. Where else is there to go?

Once I’m in front of her, she holds out something for me. A piece of fabric—black, shimmering. It reminds me of that cloak—the cloakhewore last night.

“What is it?” I ask.

She scowls deeper, then shuts her eyes, miming something: a ribbon being drawn across them.

Ablindfold? She stands in front of me, waiting. I shake my head. Why she wants me to blindfold myself, I’d prefer not to guess. But I know one thing, and she might as well know it too.

“I will not be putting that on.”

Then from behind me, I hear a noise: the clanging of a metal gate.

“And what”—a voice,hisvoice, travels toward us—“seems to be the problem here?”

Chapter Ten

My stomach flips over. I turn and there he is: tall, cloaked, striding toward me. Daylight doesn’t make him look any less intimidating.

You did not dream him after all.

But I rather wish I had.

“Well, Psyche.” He comes to a halt before me, a faceless figure in black. “You are up and dressed. That is well.” The hood swings as he looks between the old woman and me. “But what is the problem; has Aletheia not made herself understood?”

The old woman looks at me, her eyes narrowed. I indicate the piece of fabric.

“She seemed to wish me to wearthat,across my eyes.”

He pauses a moment.

“That is correct. In my own house I claim the privilege of shedding this cloak—which means you must be the one to wear a covering.”

I stare at him, at the darkness where a face should be.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean,” he says, “that you are not to look upon my face. And since humans are deplorable at keeping their eyes closed unless they are asleep, a blindfold, regrettably, is necessary.”

I can only stare. I had thought his strategy in concealing himself last night was all just a part of coaxing me into making this bargain. But I had been expecting—expecting with some dread—that today he would show his true self to me, whatever terrible face accompanies those demon wings.

“You mean I am not to see your face, even now?”

The black hood shifts.