I pushed past him and made my way into the house.
Psyche
Despite myself, the lingering heat and my full belly tempted me towards slumber. More than once, I found my head nodding down to my chest and the knife nearly slipping from my hands.
Then I heard the rhythmic tap of footsteps moving through the hall. I sat up straight, clutching the knife and the fire-poker in each hand. At this hour, the room was so dark that I could not even see them in front of me. But lack of sight heightened my other senses.
Listen, my teacher had told me long ago during our first lesson in the Mycenaean forest, and that was what I did now.
I could make out the distinct sound of bare feet moving across the stone floor – not claws or hooves or the slither of a snake, but simply human feet. A man’s, judging from the heavy tread. The footsteps moved slowly, stopping now and again as if searching for something. Then they started down the hall, approaching my door. I held my breath and waited.
The door creaked open and collided with the trunk I’d placed in front of it, prompting a low mutter from the stranger. I gauged his height from the sound, then swung the poker where I suspected his head would be. It connected with something solid.
I heard a distinctly male yelp of pain, and then a thud as his body crumpled to the floor at my feet. I reached down until my fingers wrapped around a tuft of his hair, then pulled his head up so I could place the cool blade of the knife to his throat.
‘I am Psyche, Princess of Mycenae,’ I declared. ‘Who are you?’
The stranger did not reply. I heard a gulp as he swallowed and felt his throat bob against the metal of the knife. I pressed it closer to his skin in warning.
‘Your husband,’ he answered at last.
8
Psyche
The knife nearly fell out of my hands.
‘Husband?’ I echoed, my mind racing. This wasn’t Nestor, of that I was certain; the voice was too young and unfamiliar. The events of the last few days rose up and rearranged themselves in my mind. My strange flight to this place took on a new meaning – the sudden departure of a wife from her natal home.
I remembered my mother’s words the night I told her I would not marry the old king.I have some other candidates in mind. All shall be well.
Had my mother, in defiance of my father’s will, arranged a better husband for me? The lack of a ceremony did not overly concern me, but why had she not told me of her plan? Then again, I mused, I had not been the most grateful recipient of her original choice.
‘Yes, your husband,’ the voice said. ‘Now, I’d greatly appreciate it if you removed the knife from my throat and helped me to my feet.’
I pulled the knife back and relinquished my grip on his hair, offering my hand to help him stand. I knew relatively little about the intricacies of marriage, but I was certain they didnot include concussing the bridegroom. The hand I grasped was undeniably human, and though the total darkness of the room prevented me from making out more than a silhouette, I sensed the shape of him as he padded across the room to sit down on the bed. I joined him in sitting on the bed, though I kept my distance.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded, racking my memories for all the eligible youths my mother might have approached. ‘What is your name? Your father’s name? What city are you from? Where are we now?’
‘I have no city, and my father is irrelevant.’ The voice was liquid and musical, but I was stunned by his words. A man might not know his father, but among the Greeks, to have no city was like lacking a head.
‘At least tell me your name,’ I demanded.
‘My name?’ the voice replied, and I heard a curious hitch, as if he had not expected me to press.
‘Yes!’ I barked, spurred on by my racing heart.
A long pause. ‘My name is Cupid,’ the unseen figure answered at last. ‘I am a god, a small one, of the sea and cliffs.’
I was glad I had put down the knife, because surely it would have fallen through my nerveless fingers. I felt as though I was in a dream. A god! Even if only a minor one, a deity was not to be toyed with. And I had just held a blade to his throat!
But he had called himself my husband. My mind whirled. How could my mother have arranged such a union? What dowry does one offer to the divine?
‘Cupid, I must be truthful,’ I began slowly. ‘I do not know what sort of wife I will make you. I have never cooked, save for meat at a campfire. I am a hopeless weaver. I know nothing of managing a household.’
‘That matters not to me,’ Cupid replied. ‘This house cares for itself, as I’m sure you have already seen.’
My racing heart was threatening to burst from my chest. His voice was even, his intentions indiscernible. I wished I could read his expression to understand what he wanted. ‘I can’t see a thing in here,’ I lamented, waving a hand in front of my face. I could not see a hint of movement. ‘Light a lamp at once.’
