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I don’t know if it’s fear or hunger that makes me tremble; my hand smacks into something, and I hear the sound of a glass topple and roll. The smell that wafts my way tells me it was wine.

“Never mind,” he says. Then he takes my hand in his, and places a fresh glass in it. “Have mine.”

I pull away, but he’s already let go and I don’t want to spill a second glass.

“It’s good,” he says. “Trust me.”

But I can’t trust you.

I can feel him watching me, even if I can’t see it. Slowly, I take the glass to my lips, and take the smallest sip. It floods me—the most miraculous feeling. It’s like jumping into the sea and feeling all the blood in your body cry out with cold, but instead of cold, it’s joy. It’s as though I can feel all the pathways of my body at once, all lit up like a bright torch.

I put down the wine and let out a small gasp.

“You like it?” he says, a smile in his voice. Unless it’s a smirk. Beneath the blindfold, I can’t quite be sure.

Then a plate lands in front of me, very gently placed. I hear it, but mainly I smell it, the wonderful aromas drifting toward me.

And I cannot hold out forever, he is right. Even ifhewere notdetermined that I eat, I know I can’t keep going like this. If I am to break free of this place, then I must live; I must keep my body strong.

“Will it be like before?” I say. “Will I…lose myself?”

He is quiet.

“I cannot say,” he admits finally. “It is different for everyone.”

I turn my face toward his voice.

“What do you mean? Different for whom?”

“Those I feed,” he says simply, “all feel it. But what each feels, tastes, that is different for everyone. It is about you, Psyche, as much as it is about me.”

I think of Persephone, condemned to the Underworld because of one bite of Hades’ fruit. But this creature is no god, and I am no goddess.

Falteringly, I move my hand. On the right is the lamb, he said. I move my hand a little to the side, and my pinkie finger nudges the warm bread. I tear a piece, then use it to scoop up some of the lamb. My mouth is watering uncontrollably; my stomach is growling. But still I cannot seem to put it in my mouth. The sip of wine, small as it was, was enough to remind me of the magic of this place; of how intoxicating any morsel on this table can be. I don’t know if I can bring myself to eat in front of him. I lost myself once before, with that peach—I would surely have dived off the cliff for one more bite, had I not still been in chains.

I swallow.

“My hand shakes too much. I cannot see what is on my plate. Let me take it into my room, and eat there, without the blindfold.”

There’s a pause.

“I have not asked to share your bed, but I ask that you share my table.” He pauses. “Here. I will help you.”

I hear movement; new wafts of deliciousness. Then a shock of nearness: I don’t know how I know exactly, but I sense him here, quite close to my face. I smell, underneath the smells of food, that particular scent of his: myrrh and honey, cedar and pine.

“A morsel of lamb,” he says. “With rosemary, thyme, lemon. On a piece of bread, with olive paste.”

I sit frozen. He’s holding it in front of my mouth. He is proposing to…feed me?

“I…”

I sit back into my chair. This is how infants look, I suppose, resisting attempts to make them eat.

“Psyche, come.” His voice is reasonable, even amused. “You cannot starve.”

I’m trying to resist, but all I can smell is the mouthful of food hovering just before my nostrils. My stomach feels like there is some wild creature inside, hurling itself at the walls. I am so empty inside, I could faint.

“Psyche?”