Helen knows her, knows that iridescent loveliness, and so knowing stands in helpless awe before the old woman — the guise even more beautiful and terrible than the others somehow, raising a blush to Helen’s face and wringing her heart. Something tugs at Helen’s robes, and then the familiar whisper is in Helen’s ear, the voice that can render Helen breathless no matter the words.

“Don’t make me regret you,” says Aphrodite with her usual sweet smile, and the breath against Helen’s neck is as gentle as a warm sea breeze.