“Let them go.” Eurydice felt a huge weight lifting off her chest as she watched them together. Yesterday she had felt as if she were in the middle of some puzzle, which wouldn’t fit together, but today all the pieces were falling effortlessly into place. Orpheus smiled down at her, his face quiet, but his eyes watchful and deep. She turned her face up to him and asked, “Would you like to see my stream?”

He took her hand and squeezed. “I would love to.”

When they passed Melina’s cottage, Eurydice heard them laughing inside and her chest loosened even more. She thought she heard Orpheus breathe a sigh of relief as well, and smiled up at him. His hand still clasped hers; swinging casually as they walked and he whistled a tune. Even that was beautifully melodic, a gift to the ears.

“What song is that?”

He shrugged. “Something I made up. I make up hundreds a day in my head.”

“Hundreds?”

“A gift and a curse, I suppose.” He sighed. “I have enough music in my head for a hundred men.”

She nodded in understanding. “I suppose we all have them.”

“Gifts?”

“And curses.” She sighed.

“What’s yours?” He smiled down at her as they veered off the path, Eurydice leading the way.

“This is.” She nodded at the stream in front of them, her little cottage on the other side.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, looking between it and her.

She sighed. “Yes, it is.”

“But you can never leave it?” Orpheus unstrapped his lyre and set it aside, sitting on the bank and patting the place beside him.

“You know about Naiads?”

“Cyrene, my half-brother’s mother,” he reminded her. “She is a Nereid.”

“Oh, yes.” That made Eurydice remember overhearing Calliope and Hymen the day before, and she debated whether to tell him what she’d heard. “But she has an entire sea to span.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Still…it could be worse—you could be a Dryad.”

“A tree nymph?” She shuddered.

“This doesn’t seem like such a bad life.” He leaned back, tucking his hands behind his head and looking up through the trees.

“No…” She sighed happily, assuming the same posture. “I guess it isn’t, really.”

“There are worse places to be tied to.”

Eurydice swallowed. “It’s the being tied down, I think, that’s the sticking point.”

“For whom?” Orpheus rolled to his side to look down at her. The feel of his body next to hers made her forget the question, and it took her a moment to remember it as she tried to memorize the lines of face with her eyes.

“I guess for me…and…well…whoever I’m with?”

He chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. “Wandering men?”

“Don’t they all have wanderlust?” She teased, nudging him with her knee.

You’re asking the wrong man.” He shook his head, looking off into the distance. “It’s all I’ve ever done.”

"Wander?” Her heart jerked in her chest.

"It’s in the life of minstrel.” He smiled down at her. “Have lyre, must travel.”

She tried to imagine his life. Would she fit in there? A new town every week, staying in strange places…she knew she could never survive it, even if her body would allow her to go so far. “Do you get tired of it?”

"Traveling?” Even his eyes looked heavy at the question. “Yes. Very weary.”

His answer relieved her, and she studied his face, the strong line of his jaw, as he watched her stream flowing over the rocks. “This is almost as beautiful as you are.” His words made her smile. “This would be the perfect place to settle down.”

"But what would you do?” She didn’t know if she wanted to play this game. It made her stomach flip and her heart race. “A minstrel needs an audience.”

“Not if he’s not singing anymore.”

“Orpheus!” She gasped. “You wouldn’t give up singing!”

“Wouldn’t I?” His eyes narrowed, and his fingers traced the line of her cheek. ""Well, not singing perhaps. But performing…yes.”

“Why?” she implored, frowning.

His thumb moved over her lips, rubbing there. “For the right reasons, it would be easy.”

“But what would you do?” She knew he wanted to kiss her—she wanted it too—but she was scared Melina and Aristaeus might come along and find them at any moment.

“Make lyres.” He grinned.

“Like that one?” She nodded toward the lyre beside him and he reached behind him to retrieve it.

“Hermes made this for me.” He half-sat, fingering the strings. “Out of a turtle shell. It’s the best lyre I’ve ever had.” The music he played on it seemed effortless, and the sound was like heaven. He glanced at her. “We’re very near the sea here, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” She nodded, longing to hear him sing. “This stream runs to it.”

He smiled dreamily, still strumming. “I could become a turtle fisherman and a lyre maker.”

“The God of Music—a turtle fisherman?” She laughed at the thought.

“Why not?” A frown creased his brow as he looked down at her.

“I don’t know why not.” Her eyes softened at the thought.

“I can’t think of one good reason.” His fingers plucked the strings, the music flowing from them. “But I can think of one to stay.”

She didn’t think she could get the words out. “You can?” His answer was a kiss, soft but not hesitant. He kissed her as if he knew she wanted kissed, confident and sure, his lips playing over hers as his fingers still strummed his lyre. It was over far too soon, and he played in earnest now, the music rising in the clearing.

The red beauty of the rose deepens

When thorn enters flesh,

Freshness fades and fades then

Into Death’s stilling breast…

Each bloom in my grasp would fall

If I were to never let go

So I carry the sweetness on and on

And do not look back…road upon road to follow…

The last note echoed, a perfectly bittersweet end.

She couldn’t help it—her hand cupped his cheek, her fingers trailing there. “That’s so sad.”

Smile was sad, too. “Story of my life.”

“Sadness?”

He nodded. “Bittersweet, remember?”

“But you must be like the sailors,” she teased. “A woman in every port.”

“Yes.” His admission made her feel as if she couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. The thought of him with another woman… “But never just one.”

“Do you want just one?”

“I do.” He put his lyre aside and slid his big body next to hers. “This one.”

“How do you know that?” It was hard to trust her feeling, her instinct, and believe he wanted her. Not because she was an irresistible nymph, not just because she was beautiful, desirable…but because she was meant to be his. It felt crazy, completely irrational, but that’s what she wanted to believe.

He touched his forehead to hers and his breath was sweet—like honey. “I just know.”

This kiss was long and lingering, and she gave herself to it completely. She didn’t want to pretend anymore. All of her longing and feeling went into the kiss as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body full into his. Her passion ignited his and he groaned against her mouth, his tongue slipping between her lips, exploring the soft corners of that orifice. Her body hummed with wanting him and she gasped when he rolled full onto her, pressing her down into the ground with his weight. I dreamed this. She remembered something so like this—even the sound of the stream and the call of the colorful birds, the strange “bryyitt” call of the birds they had named bee-eaters from tree to tree, were all the same.

His mouth moved down her neck, his teeth raking there, and she moaned, feeling his knee pressing between hers, the material there riding up between her legs. The heat was incredible, and she rocked with his thigh between hers, nails digging into the skin of his upper arms. He didn’t seem to mind or notice as he kissed his way down to her breasts, pulling the material down to expose them to his mouth, his hands.

She wanted to give herself to him completely right there at the edge of her stream. She wanted to give herself and be taken at once, rolling around until they were wet and filthy and arching with their lust in the wet recesses of her stream. She knew if it went much further, that’s just what was going to happen, and there would be no stopping. His lips covered her nipples, one after the other, back and forth, driving her to distraction. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but want him.