Excerpt from The Palace of Eros by Caro De Robertis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I don't know. Don't you want an extra palace?"

"In Poseidon's realm? Subject to his moody storms?"

"I thought you'd like it, given how you cavort with sea nymphs."

"I like wood nymphs, too, Mother."

"Fine, then! A palace on land."

"If I want a palace, I can make my own."

"I'll get you something else, anything."

"Hmmm."

"You'd be in my favor."

Here she had the upper hand, and they both knew it. Eros was free enough, these days, to fly where she wished, to love as she wished, all because her mother protected her from Zeus. Her mother kept Eros's secrets, served as her daughter's shield among the gods. And she needed a shield, given her past transgressions, what they'd cost her, what they could cost her even now if she didn't stay within certain lines. Though it wasn't so bad, was it? She did fine for herself. She didn't miss what she couldn't have, what she couldn't be. So she told herself, and in any case, there was plenty she could still do, within limits, and all she had to give in return was loyalty toward her mother, not so strenuous a thing, for her mother made few demands of her, engrossed as she was in her own pursuits. For this reason, it seemed a fair favor, not too much to ask, to shoot a single arrow into one human girl.

It would be easy, she told herself as she held her mother's gaze—and until she landed at Psyche's home, she even believed it.

* * *

It was all ready now.

The girl at the rock. The destination.

What a ploy, what a beautiful scheme.

She'd done it because she had to.

How buoyant Eros had felt that day before she reached Psyche's house, flying over with her plan to doom the girl. Not the kindest thing to do, but it could not be helped, could it, once a powerful goddess decided to ruin your life? It wasn't Psyche's fault, of course; she hadn't done anything, except get caught in a web of divine conflicts, or perhaps, shine too hard. Such a shame that this should be a crime. Eros felt for her but brushed the thought away. At times, her duties were messy. She got her hands dirty. It couldn't be helped. She tried to avoid it, she tried to be kind, except when trickery rose up in her and she saw red and let power fly from her bow, tipped with heat and the promise of chaos. Her gold-tipped arrows could defy the very Fates, they could save lives or destroy them, be gifts or tools or weapons, but she told herself that in this case (unlike other cases, unlike the case of Daphne, which still stung the edges of her mind), her conscience would be clean. She was a messenger, nothing more. It would not be her own hand that caused destruction, but the hand of Aphrodite as it steered her daughter's arrows. Let it be done. Let the aim be sharp and swift, a purpose finished by the time the sun sank behind the hills, and then she could rest easy in her mother's favor and forget the whole affair.

But then she landed, and saw the girl.

Sitting in that fetid sheep enclosure, thronged by men.

The girl: Psyche.

Something collapsed inside Eros, the border between her conscious thought and the infinite primordial dark below.

It was clear why the men had gathered—her features were exquisite, that was plain—but this alone would not have brought Eros to her knees. She fought to stay standing, fought back tears. The spark of this girl burned bright and furious. It tore into the core of Eros's being and claimed a place there. The girl's hands were folded in her lap, at times still, at times tapping against each other as if one were delivering a secret message to the other's bones. She kept her face composed, but beneath that calm, dutiful exterior she seethed with rage; how could the men not see it? Why weren't they trembling? How could they look so easily on her when her fury was a lamp to sear the skies? All those men crowded around her, gawking, saw her as a sculpture, as something to be looked at and controlled, they would almost have preferred her to be stone if it weren't for the fact that stone was too cold and hard to fuck, the bastards, the vermin, staring at her without bothering to wonder how the poor girl felt or what she wanted, nor bothering to see what she really was. Wild. Wildness in its purest form. It was utterly clear. In her eyes, in the way she perched on that cursed stool. A presence in her, untamable and vast. And as for Eros, what did she know of fury, of wildness, of power? How had she thought she'd known the world without seeing this girl's soul? She longed to see more, to see everything, longed to get close to the heat of her and hear her every secret. She wanted to give her all the treasures of land and sea just to watch her touch them, one after the other, in curiosity and delight. Treasure had no more important use than to be fondled by this girl's hands. And she felt in that instant that she existed to bring pleasure to this girl, to bask in her, to offer her all the passions, all the world.

Excerpted from The Palace of Eros by Caro De Robertis. Copyright © 2024 by Caro De Robertis. Excerpted by permission of Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.