Page 1 of Those Fatal Flowers
Prologue
The night before Ceres’s palace becomes a tomb, its halls are filled with music. The warm melody is plucked from lyre strings and blown through silvery flutes, and it meanders through marbled corridors, all empty save for one young girl. Thelia runs, clutching her sandals in one hand and a letter in the other, her bare feet padding silently against the polished floors.
When the music finds Thelia’s ears, a song rises instinctively in her throat to meet it. But tonight, Thelia forces herself to swallow it down. Luck, she believes, has been on her side, and she doesn’t risk drawing attention to herself. Not even with a hum. Amid the din of the visiting pantheon currently reveling in her throne room, Ceres has yet to notice that her daughter, Proserpina, is missing from the crowd. For now, the elder goddess is too busy assessing suitors for the younger’s hand, a fact that would have normally soured Thelia’s mood for days. But in this moment, the celebration provides the perfect distraction.
When her sisters’ glittering voices rise to accompany theinstruments, Thelia flies out into the warm summer night with Proserpina’s letter pressed to her heart.
Please meet me.It’s been harder and harder to leave notes like this, with Ceres actively preparing Proserpina for marriage. Their affection, which Ceres first ignored and then merely tolerated, has now caught the goddess’s full attention.
“A needless distraction,” Ceres called their love. “One that will hurt.”
Servants were ordered to scour both their quarters for messages; Thelia’s sisters were commanded to always accompany them. Ceres stopped short of forced separation only because Proserpina would never allow it. This note, placed so perfectly on Thelia’s pillow, should have been an impossibility. Her sisters chattering excitedly ahead of her on their way to the party, not noticing as she slipped away, another. Miracles, Thelia believes, and in a way she’s right. What she doesn’t understand is that carefully orchestrated plans across centuries are clicking into place, teeth into gears that propel her forward into the woods she and Proserpina are fated to be in.
What she doesn’t understand is why.
The note didn’t say where to find Proserpina; it didn’t have to. The location for their trysts has been the same for weeks—the small clandestine pool tucked away in Sicilia’s forests, as far away from Ceres’s disapproving eyes as they dare venture.
It’s at that pool, through parted willow branches, that Thelia finds her goddess.
Her raven curls, her skin painted silver by moonlight. And all around, fireflies blinking in and out of existence, as if Proserpina’s pulled the twinkling stars down from the heavens to share with her. Thelia marvels at the sight. She isn’t the only one to fall to her knees in awe before Proserpina, butThelia’s devotion isn’t bound to temples. As Proserpina’s handmaiden, Thelia worships her each time she slides a combthrough Proserpina’s midnight hair. Her hands fastening the silk panels of Proserpina’s tunic in place are prayers. And when they find time to steal away alone, Proserpina’s lips are ecstasy.
But though their bodies are an exciting new frontier of exploration, her feelings are more than simple lust. In the coming weeks and years, Thelia will try to puzzle out when, exactly, she realized she was in love with Proserpina, but it’s an impossible question to answer. They’ve grown up together, ever since Thelia’s mother, a Muse, came with her children to serve in Ceres’s court. And there have been as many moments when Proserpina dazzled her as there are stars in the sky.
Watching her now, Thelia revels in that honeyed ache that comes only from loving someone. But then the memory of her eldest sister’s warning sucks away its sweetness.
“She’s not yours to love.” Raidne’s voice rings in her ears.
How many times have both her sisters cautioned that this could end only in heartbreak? For even sweet Pisinoe, always drunk on infatuation for someone new, never defends their young love.
Resolve tightens Thelia’s fists at her sides. If their time together is as fleeting as everyone cautions, then she doesn’t want to waste tonight worrying. But how, exactly, to recapture the magic?
A single lily blooming at the base of an oak tree gives her an idea: a crown of flowers for her goddess. And so before Proserpina notices her, Thelia slips back into the shadows of the trees, guided by the promise of Proserpina’s smile when she presents her with the gift.
The forest’s music is different from the palace’s, but no less beautiful. It’s cicadas chirping and animals rustling underfoot, and here, Thelia joins without fear. It feels good tosing like this, to hear her voice harmonize with the night’s. To lose herself in song and to fantasies of Proserpina’s embrace.
She doesn’t notice the cicadas fall silent, the animals still.
The next gear locking into place.
All at once he’s on her, his cold claws squeezing her neck, his hot breath on her face. Terror unleashes the warnings she ignored to be here, desperate whispers from her mother, her sisters, the other nymphs, about what happens to those who find themselves alone in the path of a ravenous god.
All those women of the past, split apart for pleasure.
But this god doesn’t want her. As he crushes the scream inside her throat, it’s Proserpina he demands. Her vision darkens with his tightening grip. His voice grows distant. It isn’t until he releases her that she feels her raised finger, revealing Proserpina’s location. But before she can call out to stop him, to try to take back her treachery, he’s gone—a wolf on a yearling’s trail.
Every instinct in her body screams at her to run home. He might kill her if she intervenes, but as Proserpina’s handmaid, she’s duty bound to protect her. Though it’s not her role that drives her to her princess’s aid—it’s love.
A horrible, jagged scream cuts through the air. It snaps her from her stupor. He’s already found his prize. She nearly chokes on the realization, but for a moment, she dares to hope: Would he really be foolish enough to lay a hand on the Goddess of the Harvest’s daughter?
“Be careful,” Pisinoe cautioned whenever they slipped from the palace. “The gods show respect in Ceres’s hall, but there’s no telling what they’ll do outside of it.”
She takes off through the underbrush. Sharp stones cut at her feet and twisted roots turn the hem of her tunic into ribbons, but there’s no time to waste. The path back to the pool is short, and no more screams rise to join the first, no pleasfor mercy. Perhaps there’s still time. When she spots a large stone at the base of a birch, she picks it up and weighs it between her quaking hands. The rock is heavy enough to crack a skull. It won’t kill him, no, he’s too powerful, but hopefully it will buy them enough time to escape. What will the punishment be for striking a god? Whatever the penalty, protecting Proserpina is worth it.
But the pool, bathed in pale silver light, is empty. The only occupant of the water is Luna’s rippling reflection. How can such an awful moment be so beautiful?
“Proserpina?” There’s no answer.
The sloshing water laps at something on the bank: Proserpina’s belt. Thelia’s stomach churns. She moves to retrieve the clue and spots a scorched patch of soil at the edge of the pond. In its center, encircled by burnt reeds, is a hideous black split in the earth. Steam rises from the healing crack with a hiss. Her throat tightens: It’s large enough to swallow a person, a princess, or even a god.