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“Girl. Rose. Aphrodite?”
“Not quite,” August said. “Although she is part of the story. It begins with Chloris, goddess of flowers. She was walking through the verdant spring woods she called home when she happened to stumble across the body of a nymph lying dead on the forest floor. She wept for the beautiful creature and determined to raise her again to life. As she was the goddess of flowers, she transformed the fallen nymph into a flower. She called upon the other gods to bless her new creation. Apollo shone down on the flower with the healing rays of the sun. Dionysus granted it an intoxicating scent. The three Graces blessed it with beauty and splendor and charm. Aphrodite named it Rose in honor of her son—Eros. Rose. E-ros.”
“I didn’t know the Greek gods played word games,” Lia said, enchanted by the story and even more enchanted by her handsome storyteller.
“The gods play any and all games they wish to—word games, beauty contests, bets and dares,” August said. “Immortality gets boring otherwise.” He pointed at the image in the center of the bowl. “You see this painting...the young nymph lying dead on the ground. And from her body blooms a rose. From death, new life. It’s fitting that the new flower was named after Eros, the son of Aphrodite and Ares. The goddess of love and the god of war. Beautiful petals. Vicious thorns. That was Eros. Beautiful and lovely. And very, very dangerous. Like this cup.”
“Dangerous?” Lia stepped back from him, from the cup. “What do you mean? Is it poisoned or something?” She knew old paints and old glazes could make people quite ill.
“In a way, yes,” August said. “Though it’s not what you think. The cup was glazed with the same ‘poison’ that tipped the arrows of Eros. If you drink from this cup you will have extraordinarily heightened sexual experiences.”
“So there’s traces of aphrodisiac or something in it?” she asked.
“No, Lia, you don’t understand.” He shook his head. “I mean, the Rose Kylix is literally the cup of Eros. If you drink from it, you willexperienceyour erotic fantasies. You will enter them, live them.”
“That’s insane,” she said. “The gods weren’t real.”
“You break my heart to say that. Of course they were real. And this cup was a gift from Aphrodite to her son Eros. Until she took it back.”
“Why?”
“His worshippers were having more fun than hers because of it,” he said. “She’s got a jealous streak wide as the Mediterranean Sea.”
“How do you know all this?” she demanded.
He yanked his shirt out of his trousers.
“Stop undressing right now,” Lia said, shocked and yet not displeased.
“Look.” He lifted his shirt and pulled the waist of his trousers down two inches. On his lower stomach, right above the left hip, he had a tattoo. A tattoo of a rose identical to the three-petal rose tattoo motif on the kylix, done in thick red lines.
“What is that?” Lia asked, staring at the artwork. She felt an overpowering urge to touch it.
With her tongue.
He playfully bowed to her.
“Augustine Bowman, prostitute in the Temple of Eros, at your service, my lady.”
“You’re telling me,” Lia said, “that you’re a prostitute.”
He smiled at her. “I told you we had a lot in common.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ihave no idea what you’re talking about,” Lia said, standing up straighter.
August took his phone out of his trouser pocket, and from its leather case he pulled a small pink business card with the wordsThe Young Ladies’ Gardening & Tennis Club of Wingthorn Hallprinted on the front. On the back was a phone number in black, next to a rose and tennis racquet logo.
“Just a moment,” he said. “Have to make a call. Trying to schedule a tennis match.”
He sent the call.
On the fireplace mantel, Lia’s phone buzzed like an angry bee.
“Your friend Georgy likes me,” August said. “She asked if I played tennis and then she winked at me. I said I was game for a game. She gave me this card. Odd that it rings to your phone. Then again, maybe you really love tennis and gardening.”
“What’s wrong with tennis? Or gardening?” Lia asked.
