Page 87 of The Hymn to Dionysus

I could see, though, that it was lonely.

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“About what?”

“Me. I do like you.” I had to look at the floor. It felt like heresy to just say that to him flat, even though it was exactly in accordance with my vow. “You’re not entirely unpleasant at least two fifths of the time.”

He smiled gradually against his hand. He didn’t believe me. It was written across him. He was doing what I had been too, all this time: enjoying it while someone was insincerely nice to him, because it was better than the Nothing. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

He was hurt, and younger than me, and there was a chance I’d try to kill him in my sleep. Even if it was what he wanted, even if revenge had become a strange kind of precious to him, and even if I didn’t touch him otherwise in case I pressed a bruise—if I went around the table and kissed him to make him believe me, it would be dishonourable at best and dangerous at worst.

Only, the way he’d looked at me before, when I hadn’t taken his hands—it had put roots down in me, and it had turned out to be something I did recognise, with dark flowers I knew very well.

Helios’s death had hurt, but what had hurt much more, for years, was his chivalry. For years, he refused to touch me, because he was just such a fucking good knight, and I hated it, because after a point, chivalry like that is just cowardice.

Feeling like I was trapped in one of those bright weird Troy visions, and half expecting Dionysus to punch me and say, No, I didn’t mean that at all, I got up and leaned on the back of his chair rather than his shoulder, and kissed him once, very light.

He stayed exactly still, then put his hand around my throat to make me lean down again, not for much longer, his other hand set over my ribs to tell me not to bend too far. He was tall enough, even sitting down, for me not to need to.

I hadn’t thought as far as after, and now I was burning and hazing away and relieved and despairing all in one lovely, horrifying whirlpool.

He tipped his head at me, still holding my ribs; he was pressing slightly and somehow that dulled the pulsing ache in my injured shoulder. “You’re going to ask me to lock you in tonight, in case it was you, and not the man in the maze. Aren’t you?”

I nodded.

He didn’t argue, but he did stand up and put his arms around me. It felt like a way of reminding me that he was tall and strong, and I’d struggle to do him much damage. I put my head on his chest, not convinced. He was tall and strong, he could lift me without trying, but he didn’t like defending himself—not with the bull thing, not with Jason, who he could easily have just punched in the face, not with the knights at the stadium who had put him through such a wringer. “All right, my knight.”

I made Dionysus give me the strongest sleeping draught he had, then lock me in the front room to sleep on the couch with the storm shutters bolted from the outside, and himself in the bedroom. If Asleep Murder Phaidros really made an effort, it was possible to get through two locked doors or a set of storm shutters, but that would make a fuckload of noise. Dionysus would wake up far enough in advance to get out or hit me with something heavy. It was hot with the shutters closed, but whatever was in the sleeping draught, it was good. It knocked me out so quickly I didn’t make it to the couch; I was still blowing out the lamps and ended up curled in a heap on the floor.

I couldn’t tell when, maybe soon after that or maybe hours, but I woke up just enough to notice it when he came in and lifted me up off the floor. That was an odd mix of humiliating and nice, being carried; I wanted to stiffen and get up and walk myself, but I was too asleep. It occurred to me after a little while that it seemed to be going on for a long time. I was sure I’d only been a few yards away from the couch. Maybe he was stealing me. Gods steal people.

Well, that was fine. I didn’t mind being stolen.

It was cold.

There was a thunking noise as well, like something hard and heavy on flagstones, and something . . . breathing. An animal, something big, lungs like bellows.

Tap. Tap tap.

Where had I felt that before? Honey, that was it, I’d thought it was blood but it was just honey. I didn’t want to be covered in honey again, though, it was sticky and it took ages to wash off. Oh, and the sodding bees. I shifted, trying to wake myself up enough to say, No, no more bees, I don’t think I like the bees.

He put me down on something soft—moss—and put a cloak over me. I curled up under it, shivering now, because it was freezing in the maze.

The maze.

What?

“Phaidros!” Phaidros, Phaidros, Phaidros? Phaidros . . .

That was Dionysus’s voice, slung weird by the echoes. He sounded frantic.

And far away.

So who had carried me?

Then I was awake, and the sleeping draught was holding me down like a swamp and it was the most muscle-wrenching effort to haul myself out of it and even halfway free, and fuck, there were bats, blasting through the corridor, keening in their strange high voices as they looked for their way, and something big snarling at them, swinging its horns, hating the noise and the rush of webbed wings that made the moonlight through the fissure in the cavern strobe.

I pressed back against the wall. The bull thing was almost as tall as a real auroch. It was stamping, snapping at the bats. All I could do was stay out of the way of those hooves, which scarred the ground. I eased upright, waiting for it to turn more away from me. If I was fast then I might be able to run. I’d have no idea where I was going, but lost in the maze alone was much better than not lost with this—thing.