An hour later, the music of the festival was drowned out by the rhythmic thud of marching feet. Heracles entered the square. He was older than Deianira remembered, his face weathered by sun and war, but his presence was immense. The crowd roared, shaking their fists in adoration.

But as Deianira looked at the robe, a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the wind. She touched the fabric. It felt strangely slick, heavy with the residue of a balm she had stored in a jar years ago—the blood of the centaur Nessus.

Deianira walked to her chambers. She did not weep. She had done what she must do to atone for the ruined feast, for the burned skin, for the broken trust. She drew her own blade, and in the silence of the empty palace, she ended the tragedy she had begun.

She remembered the day vividly. Heracles had shot Nessus with a poisoned arrow as the centaur tried to assault her. Dying, Nessus had told her, “Take my blood, woman. It will ensure your husband never leaves you for another.” She had kept the jar hidden, a desperate insurance policy against the fickleness of men.

Critics have called it “Catherine Breillat meets McQueen.” Festa shrugs (we imagine; she declines interviews). But gallerists note that every piece she sells comes with a small vial of salt water labeled “for tears you haven’t cried yet.”

Deianira turned to see Lichas, the herald and her husband’s most trusted attendant. He had arrived an hour before the main procession, bearing a heavy wooden chest.