Page 129 of The Rose (The Godwicks 2)

She nodded. “You can have the Rose Kylix,” she said. “You can keep it, I mean. I’m giving it to you, no million pounds necessary. You should have it. It belongs to your people.”

“Too nice for your own good.” He tried to laugh but it didn’t come out quite right. “Lia,” he said. Just Lia, her name.

“I’ll, um...” she began, but stopped when her words caught in her throat. She took a deep breath. She would not fall apart. She would not. What she had to say was too important.

“I will remember our trip to Pan’s Island as long as I live,” she said. “I’ll remember that beautiful thing you did for me. When I’m so old I don’t even remember my own name, I’ll remember...” She heaved a sob.

“What, Lia?” August asked. Tears streamed down his face, his lovely beloved face.

“You,” she said. “I’ll remember you, August Bowman. If that is your real name.”

“It’s not,” he said.

“Too bad,” she said. “It’s a very nice name.”

She smiled one more time.

Then she left.

PART SEVEN

Danaë & Zeus

CHAPTER THIRTY

Lia didn’t cry all the way home. A small miracle, but she was grateful for it. If she came home crying, her mother might see, and if her mother saw, she’d want to know why. As fragile as Lia was feeling, she knew she’d tell Mum everything. No, she would go home and take a long hot bath and go to bed and sleep for a couple days. And when she woke up, she’d get on with her life, because what else was there to do?

By the time Lia made it home, it was nearly ten. She must have lost a very long time in the fantasy world of Aethra and Poseidon. Usually after her jaunts with August, she’d felt high as a kite—happy and carefree, fearless and free. Not tonight. How unfair... August had to go and get engaged to some random girl. What a buzzkill.

See? She was making jokes about this awful situation already. Such a good English girl. Stiff upper lip. Never surrender. Keep calm and carry on. Churchill would be so proud of her.

Lia parked in front of the house and went in the front entrance, too tired and dejected and cold to bother hiding the fact she’d gone out. As she walked past the music room on her left, she heard laughter.

Her mother’s laugh, like she’d just been pinched in a tender spot.

Her father’s laugh, like he’d won a hand of poker and was raking in the chips.

And another laugh, like a man who’d just gotten away with murder.

David.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

That bastard was here.

Too furious to be afraid, Lia walked into the music room and found her mother standing by the sofa, pouring David a glass of red wine while her father sat back in an armchair, nursing a Scotch on the rocks.

Her mother looked up when Lia came in, and her father grinned.

“There’s our girl now,” her father said. “Come in, love. Say hello to David. We were just telling him about how good you’d gotten at your weaving.”

“Lia,” David said. He wore dark jeans, a black jacket and a T-shirt splattered with paint. “Great to see you, kid.”

“Two for eight.”

“What?” David’s brow furrowed.

“Two T-shirts for eight pounds at Tesco,” Lia said. “You have paint on yours.”

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