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Oh. There he was!
She grinned and bit her wing tip.
At the first sight of him she almost laughed. The part of her brain that remembered she was Lia and he was August did laugh. August had transformed himself into a teenage boy, all youthful beauty, long limbs and awkward energy. He was so lovely he made her nervous. And how silly for a goddess to be so nervous at the sight of a mortal boy of eighteen winters and seventeen summers.
Oh, but he was the loveliest of all the boys in all the world. He had black hair that waved like a nighttime ocean and a smile bright as the noon sun in autumn. He spoke rarely, taught to hold his tongue in the presence of his elders, but when he did speak, he spoke well and wisely. He always took time to pet any dog that wandered his way. Even as a boy, he’d never pulled the tails of the mouse-catching cats in his home. He blushed in the presence of pretty serving girls but never talked to them out of turn. He was happiest on the back of a horse, riding on the beach at sunrise and sunset.
If she hadn’t decided to marry him, he would have joined the army. So she had summoned him to her palace to spare her sweet prince from that bitter life. She wouldn’t allow him to get so much as a scratch on his knee.
“Hello?” the prince called out as he made his way slowly down the long hall. He looked up and all around him and sometimes even smiled at the sight of a mosaic chariot race on the floor or the dancing leopards on the walls. He had dressed as if for a wedding, in a fine linen chiton belted with blue leather and a simple gold circlet in his hair.
She bit her wing again, to stop herself from calling out to him. Not yet. Too soon. But almost time...
“The oracle of Apollo sent me here,” he said. “I was told I am to meet my bride. I obey the will of the gods. Is anyone there? I wish to obey the will the gods.”
Goodness, she thought. Goodness gracious he made her quills quiver. He wished to obey the gods. And she was a god, therefore he wanted to obeyher.
How nice of him.
The eager goddess plucked a feather from her wing and blew it into the hallway. She peeked around the edge of the tapestry and watched the feather dance in the evening breeze toward Prince Psyche. He stood up straighter, and she delighted in how tall he was and how trim. She delighted in the red sunset shadows in his hair and the way his eyes tracked the feather dancing around his head. And oh, when he laughed as the feather brushed his cheek, she delighted in that, too.
He reached out, trying to grab it from the air but it darted out of his grasp. Her doing, of course.
The feather danced again in front of his face and the love-struck goddess blew a breath and turned the feather into a tiny white hummingbird. He gasped at the magic that had taken place just before his eyes. The bird alighted on his shoulder and nipped at his hair. Lucky bird. Then it took off, and he seemed to understand—oh, clever Prince Psyche—that he should follow it.
The hummingbird darted this way and that, but the young prince followed its lead up the spiraling stairs. Eros flew straight out the nearest window and up to the bedroom she’d prepared for them so lovingly on the highest floor. She arrived there before the prince and hid herself in the shadows. Oh, she prayed he would admire the room she had made for them. The walls were painted with murals of wild forests and silver lakes and pretty nymphs bathing in winding streams, hiding themselves behind the dancing branches of weeping willows. The bed was big as a sailing ship with posts made of oak carved like climbing ivy. On the ceiling, she’d had painted horses running across the sky.
Too much? Probably too much. She did overdo it when in love.
She gasped. There he was.
He stood in the doorway of their bedroom peering in, his eyes wide with wonder, his posture fearful.
And then she knew she must speak.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
He looked right. He looked left. He did not find her. She’d slipped into the mural of the nymphs and hidden behind the one with the widest hips. He’d never see her there.
“Who said that?”
“I did,” his goddess said. “I mean...your bride did. That’s me. Your bride.”
“Where are you, my bride?” he asked. “I would like to meet you.”
“I can’t show myself to you,” the goddess said.
“Are you shy?” he asked.
Shy? Her? The goddess of passionate love? She who had coupled with gods and satyrs and, once, even a cloud—shy?
Nonsense.
“I’m not shy. Not in the least.” She dropped her voice to sound sultry before breaking into a girlish giggle.
“Then why do you hide yourself from me? How can I be your husband if I’m not allowed to see you?” As he spoke he walked around the room, peering into corners, behind columns, even under the bed.
“Do you wish to be my husband?” she asked, chewing again on her wing tip. She really ought to stop that. Nasty habit.
