Judith Tarr: Household Gods

“Thank you,” Nicole said to the god and goddess. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She set the glass in front of the plaque as a second offering. But there needed to be more. She lifted the glass again and, for the first time in her modern life, took a sip of wine.

It wasn’t nearly so sweet as Falernian. The flavor, like the smell, was richer, and more complex. After several sips and some moments’ thought, she decided she liked it better. She could hope Liber and Libera did, too.

However they felt about it, they weren’t saying. She set the cup down half empty, leaving it for them if they wanted it, and turned out the light. She’d sleep well, she was sure. Whatever worries she had, for this night at least, none of them mattered.

In the dark silence of the bedroom, Libera’s stone eyes swung toward Liber’s. The god was already looking her way. They nodded. The wine had been a little on the sour side, but it was the first formal offering they’d had in a long, long time. They were both well pleased.

They were also both amused. They were gods; they could read a human soul as easily as a man could read letters on a parchment. Nicole had not simply been thanking them for returning her to this time — which she, for incomprehensible mortal reasons, preferred to their own. She was thanking them, too, for all that had gone well in her life since.

And that, Liber and Libera knew, was foolishness. How could it be anything else? She’d done those things, every one of them, herself.