“This is wishful thinking,” she said. “The priest, who is the embodiment of Dionysus, is seduced in the fourth stanza. There is nowhere further for the narrative to go.”
“Perhaps, but something seems incomplete in the verse. Besides, shouldn’t the final position of the figures match the transition from the old year into the new?”
For the first time in their acquaintance Lady Whistle looked anxious, a mere glimmer before she resumed her usual unfathomable demeanor.
“I suspect the discrepancy results from the shifting of the skies since the second century A.D. Believe me, if there were a missing fifth tableau and stanza, I would know.”
A twitch pulled at her lower eyelid and instinctively Alistair sensed she was lying. She pulled his notes toward her.
“This is the translation of the fourth stanza?”
“Indeed, my lady. Completed a moment before you entered the room.” He gazed again at the transcription—it certainly sounded final, but he was sure there was something still to come.
Worship me in sensual abandonment
But forget not the rites of Spring
Nor the moment my bountiful arms spread across the sky.
Thirteen revelers in symmetry should lie
Four times from womb to tomb from mother to whore,
Only then shall my powers be lent.
She walked around the desk and stood behind him, her proximity eclipsing him like a dangerous proposition.
“In that case your task is almost done.”
He could feel her breath teasing his ear. “What is it like to stare at these figures night after night? Does it not excite you, Mr. Sizzlehorn?”
Alistair breathed in sharply, sensing a trap.
“Naturally, Lady Whistle: I am a man. But I view the mural as a work of art, as a metaphor not an actuality.”
“But if it were an actuality—if I could promise to recreate the temple, the identical furnishings of the Villa of the Mysteries, the exact incense burning, the hypnotic pounding of the drums, the priestesses and the satyrs—would you participate, Mr. Sizzlehorn? Would you help to conjure the great, trembling life force?”
By this time she had made her way around the desk again and stood before him, unflinching in her intention. Alistair wondered whether he had misheard: the wild statement did not fit with what he thought he knew of Lady Whistle and her station. For one disjointed moment he had the distinct sensation that someone, or something, else had spoken from deep within her. He tore himself away from her eyes. Of course he had fantasized about such carnality while working on the translation. Having never known a woman, the notion of sensual abandonment on such a scale was completely abstract, but the idea of framing such behavior with religion and ritual excited him immensely. It appealed to both the archaeologist and the romantic.
“But you cannot do that, my lady,” he stuttered. “It would be against the law and God.”
“I can do what I like. There will be no murder, no blood sacrifice. And we are all of age, sir.”
“We?”
“I have twelve willing participants who fit the requirements of the rite.”
The air between them thickened like a velvety skin that shimmered with sexual possibility.
“But who would be involved in such a thing?” Desire dried his mouth.
“Sophisticated individuals who have been tainted by power, fame, wealth—creatures who seek risk, seek escape from the tedium of conventional life. Some you might recognize; others will be there because I have chosen them for their beauty. But I promise, all will be masked. These are influential people, Alistair, but they are also people who believe in the force of Eros. Not the Eros confined by the limitations of romantic love or the repetitious machinery of procreation, but an Eros to be elegantly and coherently worshipped. A ritual to be reignited by the knowledge contained in your translation.” She placed her hands dramatically upon the drawing. “The beauty of body sliding across body—gestures unseen for thousands of years.”
“But such a thing would be a fantasy,” Alistair protested. “The amount of research, of reconstruction involved, is inconceivable.”
“I have achieved it. I have rebuilt the interior of the temple from the House of Mysteries as accurately as possible. It lies hidden on my country estate, Whistlewaite. We are ready, Alistair. All we are missing is the thirteenth participant.”
She leaned across and ran her finger along Alistair’s jawline, arriving at the edge of his lips. With exquisite lightness, she caressed them, sending tremors throughout his entire body. They exploded in delicious finality somewhere in