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“The real Pan’s Island,” she said. “If it exists, I mean. But if you exist I suppose Pan must exist, and he must live somewhere.”
“He does,” August said. “On an island, in fact. We’re old friends.”
“He likes you?” Sounded like August—Eros—had managed to piss off most of the Olympians. They had better go somewhere August would stay mostly out of trouble.
“He’s the god of nature and sex is natural. I’m the god of sex and nature is very sexual. We have loads in common.”
“What’s his island like?” Lia asked. She didn’t want to be disappointed if it wasn’t like she’d dreamed.
“Wilder and stranger and more beautiful than you can imagine,” August said as he drew her to him. “You’ll probably go mad there.”
“Can we go there first?”
August waved his hand and suddenly a red curtain hung on the roof of the gallery, a red curtain held by nothing.
“Shall we?”
Lia crept over to the curtain. She put her ear to the velvet, and from behind it she heard pipes playing a tune so lovely and lively that she thought if she started dancing to it she might never wish to stop.
August took her hand in his, and he slowly began to draw the red curtain aside. She spied a river running silver, and a forest greener than any green her eyes had ever seen, and young girls in diaphanous gowns of baby blue, palest pink and sunshine yellow dancing in circles around a laughing bearded satyr.
Lia looked at August in delight. He stared at her with love in his eyes, with unutterable love.
“Are you afraid?” August asked.
“No,” Lia said as she passed through the curtain and into the realms of magic and myth.
And yet.
Oh, and yet...
She was afraid.
Ω
