Page 81 of This Divine Revelry

My father is willing to do that himself for the mere implication that I betrayed him. He has made perfectly clear what he thinks of women who take up space. He’s spent years hiding us from view. And now here I am: mocked and turned into a spectacle. Like those bodies at the wall, my degradation is a symbol of his might.

I step forward, but Dionysus doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

Yes, I do – the king has ordered it. And tied it to my marriage. I’m either the brazen, indecent woman allied in Dionysus’s pursuit of revelry, or a condemnation of it – and who would possibly follow him if his own wife doesn’t?

A dual-edged blade: my reputation or my husband’s.

I step up to the stage, hungry eyes watching me. A musician strums a lyre.

Already people are chuckling into their cups, but I find Dionysus. This is not just about ruining me in front of the court – it’s about declaring any woman’s pursuit of joy indecent.

So, when I step, I dance with rage – my own burning humiliation turned to fire. I begin slowly, each movement careful, measured. And I let it build like my anger, like my frustration – like if I spin enough, the world might settle differently when the dizziness subsides. My every gesture is lithe, flowing, languid – and the laughter stills because whatever else I am, I am good at this.

I am captivating.

As I reach the moment of the dance’s repetition, Dionysus blocks me.

I halt, and so does the music, the reverberations echoing in the sudden silence.

‘Don’t stop,’ Dionysus says. ‘If we are giving them a show, then let’s do this.’

He holds his hands up, and I recognize the starting move – the dance we created. It is rowdy. It involves clapping and stomping, your bodies becoming the beat. Spinning around and finding new partners, a game as much as a dance.

I place my hand to his and, for a brief moment, the music is only our hands clapping together, our feet pounding on the floor and – a second later – our laughter. Bubbling up, smiles breaking as we look at each other, and I am so utterly happy he is here beside me, that I am not facing this alone. That in all my worst nightmares of the man who broke a part of me invading every inch of my life and tearing it all from me, I never stopped to hope for someone like this to ease it all.

Then the lyre begins, the musician finding the beat.

I catch sight of the watching men, some still sneering, but some – more than some – intrigued.

As the music arches back around, at the moment we would switch partners – Dionysus meets my gaze and nods.

I swoop upon the nearest man, offering him my hand, and he takes it instinctively, is on his feet without thought. He suddenly realizes – a moment of clear regret and an uncomfortable laugh – but I force a smile and show him the steps and that laugh transforms.

At the next beat, I turn and there is my mother.

‘Show me,’ she says defiantly. Her eyes are bright, raging fires spun to simmering joy. This is what she always dreamt of. A hall full of dancing. A world in which my father does not shut us all down.

I raise my hand to hers, twirling around on the dance floor, stomping our feet and making noise in this ever-quiet palace. I wonder what my father thinks of this – of her – but in that moment, with her hand on mine and our gleeful steps, I cannot bring myself to care.

At the next turn, a dozen more people have joined us.

At the next, the dance floor is full.

People begin adding in shouts to the moves, cheering each time they clap, making up steps when they forget what is expected of them.

Dionysus climbs up on to a chair beside the man with the lyre. ‘If you wish to revel like the followers of Dionysus – then let’s do this properly, shall we?’ He waves a hand, and every cup in the room near overflows with wine.

I blink away the slowly welling tears as I survey the room – him – raucous and loud and gleeful. And I understand the strength of the thiasus like never before – revolution in every smile, freedom in every single step. My father’s control, lifted – there is no way for him to voice his ire when this is precisely what he asked for.

A new hand grabs mine and I spin right into Theseus.

‘That was very nicely done,’ he says, turning me in exactly the right steps. He’s been watching carefully. My palm pressed against his burns. His skin against mine. His touch an infestation, like I am festering beneath.

I try to show none of my repulsion. ‘You must be furious.’

‘No, I’m not.’ He takes a breath, seemingly steeling himself, and then, with forced calm, he says: ‘And I’m pleased we can finally speak.’

‘What can you possibly have to say to me?’