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“That would be me,” Lia said. “Or you. The viewer.”
“This is what Andromeda sees?” August waved his hand over the tapestry, the red evening sea, the shadow in the water about to rise and devour her.
“I wanted to weave the scene through her eyes, what she saw as she was waiting to be killed. Hope I got it right.”
“Let’s find out,” he said. “May I?” He raised his hands and Lia put hers into them without thinking. Or...without thinking anything except that she wanted to put her hands in his.
August pulled her closer, moving her to stand directly in front of him. From behind her, he clasped her wrists.
“You are now Andromeda, daughter of Cepheus, the king of Aethiopia, who dotes upon his daughter and Queen Cassiopeia, who like so many mothers in mythology was jealous of her daughter’s beauty.”
August lifted her arms up and over her head. He held both her wrists in his one large, strong hand. They rested lightly in his grip, and she knew she could pull them away in an instant.
She didn’t.
“You are Andromeda,” he said again. “And your hands are chained over your head with another chain wrapped around your stomach.” He wrapped his arm around her hips and pulled her back against him. “Tightly. You can’t move at all.”
“At all?”
“No,” he said into her ear. “This was done at your request, Andromeda. Remember? Long or loose chains meant you could possibly cower when the Cetus came for you. And you will not cower in death but stand up straight and meet it face-to-face. You ordered your mother to lock the final chain to the rock.”
“Why did I do that?” Lia asked, her voice low and breathless, her wrists still held in his hand, above her head. His voice was deep and low and rumbled like a gentle earthquake. He became a different person to her as he told the story, like an ancient bard, singing his tales at the feasts of long-dead kings.
“The priests at the temple said you must be chained naked to the rock to await the ravaging of Cetus. It was to be your wedding night, and you would be married to Death. Your death alone would appease the wrath of Poseidon.”
“Yes, in all art, she’s naked,” Lia said. “Thought that was because the artists were perverts.”
“You poor girl, Andromeda. You wanted your mother’s arms, your mother’s protection and love. But you also wanted to punish your mother, as well. It was your mother’s fault you had to be sacrificed.”
“Was it her fault?” Lia asked, already knowing the answer.
“Queen Cassiopeia had bragged about you, saying her daughter was more beautiful than the Nereids, the water nymphs who served in Poseidon’s temple. I say bragged, but in truth she lamented. Once she’d been the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, and then you usurped her. While chained to that rock, did you think perhaps your mother hadn’t secretly hoped this would happen? After all, once you were dead and gone, perhaps she would be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom again. ‘Look well, Mother,’ you said to her. ‘Look well at your child. Am I beautiful now, in these chains? Is this the marriage you arranged for me? Your daughter wed to Death? Will you brag that you’re the most beautiful woman in Father’s kingdom when I’m gone? Was that your plan all along?’”
Lia could hear the girl’s voice ringing in her ears. She could hear the hiss and rasp of her fury and her fear.
“How do you know all this?” Lia asked. “I read everything I could on Andromeda before I started the tapestry. I never read she made her mother chain her, or what she said to her.”
“I’m Greek. You weave these stories into your tapestries with wood and thread. We are born with them carved onto our very bones, like scrimshaw. I know them as I know my own name. And yours, Lia.”
Lia had never been more aware of her body and her breathing than she was then, wrists in his hands, back to his chest, lips panting, knees trembling, stomach quivering, her breasts pressed hard against the fabric of her dress. She knew if she could touch herself inside, she would be wet.
“But where is handsome Perseus in your tapestry?” August whispered the words into her ear. “Where is his winged horse and our hero come to save you, Andromeda?”
“He’s coming,” Lia said. “But not yet. I’ll weave him in last. I wanted Andromeda to wait, to be afraid, to believe no one is coming for her, that no one is going to save me. I mean, save her.”
“Cruel,” he said. “You have a pagan soul, my lady.”
“That’s not—”
August laughed. She felt his chest move against her back. “Mercy is one of the Christian virtues, and I am no Christian, either.” The arm around her stomach tightened as he molded her body to his. Lia shuddered, shocked at the pleasure of being held against him.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“A little,” she said. “But don’t stop. I want to know what it was like to be her.”
“Is that why you weave from her perspective?”
“That’s how I do all my tapestries.”
