She spent a season watching a nest of ospreys learning to fly, the chicks molting from ugly gray lumps to trim little juveniles, finally growing up to leave the nest and find territories of their own.

Spring brought rain and warm breezes before giving way to hot, dry summer. Once the heat had passed, the trees grew golden, their leaves turning brittle in the flush of autumn. The weather changed, and spring came anew, tiny shoots bursting through the earth as if summoned by the sun.

Demeter was always busy, busy, busy. There were new kings to teach, new fields to plant. Humanity seemed destined to spread like an entangling weed, even as the machinations of Athena and Ares sent generation after generation of mortal sons to Hades’ realm.

The house was never empty—there were always acolytes and attendants about, all to serve Demeter, of course, but few of the other gods deigned to make an appearance.

So, it was with some surprise that Persephone found Hephaestus lurking at the front of the house one summer, apparently summoning the courage to knock upon their door.

Persephone shifted her flower basket to her other arm and brushed back a lock of hair from her face. “Hephaestus! What brings you here?”

He smiled nervously at her, his face glazed with a sheen of sweat. “You, dear Persephone.” He shifted from one leg to the other, the metal contraption that encircled his damaged leg squeaking slightly.

“Why don’t you come inside and share some wine with us?” Persephone asked.

Hephaestus coughed. “Well, actually, before that—I would rather speak plainly with you, if I may.”

“Of course.” Persephone smiled at him in an attempt to put him at ease, but it only seemed to make him more nervous. “I still remember the mechanical bird you gave me. It was the most charming thing I’d ever seen,” she said.

“Ah.” Hephaestus seemed to draw courage from her words. “I’m glad. It was over a hundred summers ago, you know.”

“Really?” Persephone’s eyes widened. Had it been that long since she had danced at Zeus’s palace? “I’m sure your skills have only grown since that time.”

“And I would fashion many more delights for you, each one more wondrous than the last, if you were to permit me to—to—”

Persephone waited, biting her tongue to keep herself from interrupting.

“—if you would permit me to court you,” Hephaestus said, almost sagging with relief to have the words out.

Persephone blinked. “Oh!” She flushed and glanced away. She could not say that she felt strongly about it one way or the other—and it was not that she minded his limp, nor the misshapen slope of his face. She had simply never thought of him in that way. Then again, he seemed kind enough and was clever with his hands.