That night, when Cupid’s broad-shouldered man’s form joined me in the tent, I was ready.
‘Let us play a game,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘You said you were a skilled archer, did you not?’
‘I am,’ he said slowly. ‘But what on earth are you up to, Psyche?’
I reached down, fumbling with my bow and arrows in the darkness. ‘Let us match our skills,’ I said. ‘Whoever can hit the tent post wins!’
I did not wait for his puzzled grunt of assent. I fumbled my way through the darkness to ascertain the position of the wooden post holding up our tent. I tapped it with my foot, then traced my way back.
‘This isn’t exactly fair,’ Cupid told me. ‘Your senses are not as sharp than mine. You are at a disadvantage.’
I didn’t answer. Instead, I nocked an arrow to my bow, trusting in the knowledge of my body and the precision of my tools. I lined up the arrow over my foot, pointed at the post. I released and was rewarded with a satisfactorythunkas the arrow hit the wood.
I yelped in delight, and even Cupid murmured impressed acknowledgment. I felt the bow and quiver leave my hands as he took them, and then the creak of the bowstring as he lined up his shot. A moment later came a similarthunk, along with the sound of wood splintering. I shuffled through the darkness to the tent pole and ran my hands over it, feeling the curve of wood like the unfurling of a flower. I realized his arrow had split mine down the middle.
‘Well, I suppose that’s to be expected of a god,’ I replied airily, a bit miffed at his precision. Even Atalanta could not accomplish such a feat as this. ‘But don’t you think I did well?’
‘You did,’ he replied, as if to a child. He guided me backinside the tent. I heard him settle into the wide bed at the centre of the room.
I joined him beneath the sheets. ‘Next we’ll try our hands at shooting down birds on the wing,’ I said. ‘It might be difficult to do so at night, but not impossible.’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘I am … loath to use my arrows on living things. The outcome does not please me.’
‘Oh,’ I said, wilting with disappointment. I’d hoped to go hunting with him, as Atalanta had with Meleager. ‘I suppose it would be too difficult, anyway. Since we can’t see each other’s faces.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, Psyche,’ he said. I heard him shift and thought he might have propped his chin on his hand. ‘There might be a way to break the curse. But I will need your help, and the quest will be long and dangerous.’
‘How?’ I demanded, intrigued at the possibility. ‘Where?’
The thought of seeing Cupid in the daylight made my nerves sing with excitement. I wanted to rest my eyes on the planes of the face my fingers had danced across in darkness. I wanted to know him, all of him.
‘The cure lies in the Underworld,’ came his reply. ‘Gods cannot enter, but mortals can. You must bring back water from the river Lethe. That should be enough to break the curse.’
A tendril of fear curled through me, but I dismissed it. Mortals who went down into the Underworld were not supposed to return to the land of the living, but Cupid was a god and possessed strange magic. He must have found a way to ensure I would be able to travel to the Underworld and return with the waters of Lethe. ‘Of course I will go!’ I exclaimed.
Cupid laughed uncertainly at my eager response. ‘Have you no questions? Is “the Underworld” the name of a pleasant hotspring or lovely valley among your people? This is the land of the dead I speak of, Psyche.’
‘No, you were quite clear,’ I replied. ‘But a journey like this is the stuff of legend. And if the curse is broken, we’ll finally be able to see each other.’ At last, I would know who he really was.
‘Naturally,’ he said after a pause. ‘I am pleased to hear it. I knew I could trust you. Goodnight, Psyche.’
I heard him roll over, so his back faced me. I frowned into the darkness, puzzled that he wasn’t more enthusiastic about the thought of not needing to hide, but warmed by his words. Cupid trusted me.
Hungry for something I could not name, I lifted a hand and stroked the warm skin of his shoulder. When I felt his body ease and turn back towards me, I wrapped my arms around him and laid my head on his chest. The darkness lent itself to intimacies that were unthinkable in the daylight hours.
Cupid tensed for a moment, then relaxed. An arm lifted to embrace me. It occurred to me that he was not used to being touched; gods were solitary creatures, it seemed, like tigers or bears. I could feel his body against mine – cheek to chest, thigh upon thigh, his arm encircling me. Lean, strong, so much like a man’s that I might believe him mortal if I didn’t know the truth. How well we fit together, how pleasingly he moved against me. A longing woke in me, a hope for more.
I wanted to ask what Prometheus had said to him, or to tell him what Prometheus had told me. Especially the part about being a great lover instead of a great hero. I wanted to ask for something I had never known, never felt except in fleeting moments between twilight and dawn when I lay tangled in my bedsheets, alone until now.
But the words slipped away from me like shadows swallowed by the night. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t wantto feel Cupid draw away from this warm moment like a turtle into its shell.
Wrapped in his arms, I fell asleep.
The next day dawned hot and bright, and I was thinking about sex.
I knew what sex was, vaguely. I’d seen horses and sheep in the act, and I’d heard the servants in the Mycenaean palace whispering about their various dalliances. I understood the basic mechanics, even though a well-bred girl was not supposed to know such things until her wedding night. But my own wedding night had come and gone, and I knew nothing more than I did before.
I glanced at my husband, who had taken the shape of a lion today, ambling along the path. He was quiet, perhaps focused on the task ahead.
