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And now two priests are leading out the white bull they have readied for the sacrifice. It gleams in the sun; they have washed it and anointed it already. All the way from Crete, a gift from the Demous for the temple. After the sacrifice, the bull will be roasted and all the people of Sikyon will eat.

As the bull is led out before the crowd, the cheers intensify. The bull is held fast by a rope around its neck. I see its heaving breaths; I can feel its agitation.

The other charioteers are starting to dismount. I see some of them look back toward me—mostly the girls, mostly with dislike. They hate that I was chosen for this. But two priests are walking across the foreground toward our chariot: Hector and I have one last piece of the pageant to fulfill, now that everyone’s in place.

As if by magic, Yiannis appears beside me and takes the reins.

“You were magnificent,” he murmurs in my ear, his voice a purr. “Now go—your crown awaits.”

This is the last piece of the pageant. Hector and I will come forward, and the priests will crown us each with a wreath of white roses. Then we’ll stand with them for the sacrifice.

It’s a shame to get blood all over such a dress.

My stomach roils, but I tamp the feeling down.

“Come on, Hector,” I take his sweaty young palm in mine.

There’s a strange energy in the crowd behind us and around us. It’s the same energy that was there before, but in this holy place it feels amplified. There’s a hunger in the air, a hot desire like wolves on the hunt. There’s a rumbling around us, and the crowd breaks out gradually into a chant. It starts as a murmur and grows.

Aphrodite.

Aphrodite!

Aphrodite!

It is as though something has taken them over. When I glance around at them, it scares me a little. Somehow it feels as thoughIam about to be sacrificed and not the bull.

They’re shouting Aphrodite’s name, but it’s me they’re looking at—not at the temple, not at the statues and paintings that adorn it, not at the marble figure of Aphrodite placed in the olive grove next to that of Eros. It’s as though they’ve forgotten where they are. It’s as though they’re worshippingme.

I kneel, pulling Hector down beside me. I feel the eyes of the crowd as the priestess approaches us, two crowns in her hands. I just hope they removed the thorns.

She looks to the crowd, and then down at Hector, who’s beaming with anticipation. A shadow crosses over her face, and it sends a chill through me. She leans forward and places the crown gently on his head. Cheers erupt behind us. Then she turns to me.

I meet her gaze, although something in me is afraid. I don’t know why. She studies me for a moment.

“So, this is the face they say is more beautiful than the goddess herself.”

I do not think she is making fun of me, or even reproaching me. If anything, I hear something like regret: the voice ofsomeone who knows it’s too late to change what has already been done. She looks at the single wreath of white roses that remains in her hands, and then out toward the crowd. Then she sighs, and lowers it onto my head.

I feel it settle, but barely have the time to notice its weight, because something is happening now in the sky. That breeze I felt earlier: it’s back, but now it’s more than just a ribbon of cold around my neck. It’s like a wall of damp, freezing air, and out of nowhere the sky has turned a roiling grey. A minute ago there was not a single cloud; now it could almost be nightfall.

The white bull paws at the ground; the horses shy and whinny. I feel a hush go over the crowd, a moment of uncertainty. The king hesitates, then steps forward. There is a script to be followed. Storm or no storm, he means to proceed.

“Great Aphrodite, Great God Eros,” he intones. “In your honor we bring this snow-white bull, and the best of our season’s wine…”

But his voice trails off as the wind whips louder, drowning him out. There’s no doubt of it now: this is no ordinary storm. I look at the priestess, but she won’t meet my eyes. The crowd’s nervous murmuring breaks into shouts.

“The gods are displeased,” a townsperson says.

“We must hurry the sacrifice!” calls another.

The murmuring is a rumble now. The townspeople are staring at me, but not as they stared before. The wind does not whip aroundthemlike this. It punishes only me.

My hair flies in wild hanks around my face and I try to claw it back from eyes, but it’s entangled in the crown of roses. The wind howls once more, and then I scream in pain as the crown, with my hair still knotted in it, is wrenched from my scalp as if by a mighty hand. Beside me Hector gasps as the crown sails through the air, losing rose petals in a flurry as it wheels around, then collides furiously with the steps of the temple, falling in aheap on the dusty ground. I put a hand to my stinging scalp.

“Your daughter, Andreos!” someone shouts. “What is this? What has she done!”

And that’s when lightning splits the sky.