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What I did not know was that I had hit upon a truth of womanhood: however blameless a life we led, the passions and the greed of men could bring us to ruin, and there was nothing we could do.
My story would not be one of death and suffering and sacrifice. I would take my own place in the songs that would be sung about Theseus:
It was only Dionysus’ benevolence that had made it nothing more than an amusing tale, rather than a terrible tragedy. All he needed to do was to will it either way.
Truly where you should feel the most uncomfortable about Dionysus. His boyish charm masks his godlyness, making the reader AND Ariadne look past what his is capable of.
Why did I, Phaedra of Knossos and Athens, put my faith in a man?
Somewhere, in the thickening mist of my thoughts, I drew on the image of my children’s faces; I pulled them to the forefront of my disappearing vision, and I saw us all together once more, as we had been.
