“Come now,” he says, this capricious god, tossing the golden curls from his eyes, sharp and cutting as blades. “Be a good girl and repent, say you’ll be mine, and I shall be generous, and lift your curse.”

Cassandra does not squint under his light, choosing willful blindness and letting the words fall from her lips: “The sun needs fuel to feed its fire, and the day will come when bright Apollo has burned all his worship, and will crumble to ash,” and so it is she sees his face go grey, and smiles.