Persephone let the details wash over her and instead studied the shape of Hades’ lips, the contours of her face. She had such focus, radiating stillness like the depths of a frozen pond. Hades worked too much. All these clever humans surrounding her, but none worthy enough to read a simple report? Work was her addiction, her crutch. If Persephone remained in the underworld... If she had to stay, she wouldn’t allow herself to be put in second place.

Hades finished her sentence, then looked at Persephone. Her fingers creased the scroll. “This is a dangerous game you play. Are you certain you wish to trifle with me?”

Persephone opened her mouth, then closed it again. Certain… Nothing about Hades made her certain about anything, least of all her own feelings.

“Go to bed, Persephone. Your own bed.”

Persephone pouted. “Maybe a few more lines—”

“No.”

It wasn’t always easy to tell when Hades was actually angry with her, or when she was using anger to mask some other, more dangerous emotion. Hades’ pupils were dilated, her nostrils slightly flared. Persephone had thought she’d washed herself well, but now she wondered if she still stank of arousal.

Persephone flung back the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was about to leave, then turned, leaning over to kiss Hades’ cheek. “Good night, Hades.”

Hades said nothing.

Persephone went to her room and closed the door, resting against it as it clicked shut.

She had no idea what she wanted. Not anymore.

19

SUMMER, AGAIN

Some time later, Hades hosted a banquet to celebrate some obscure piece of underworld history or some forgotten god. Feast days in the underworld did not match those on the surface; Persephone knew she ought to study their calendar at some point, but it had never been a priority.

The fare at her table was noticeably poorer than it had been on previous occasions. Persephone toyed with the food on her plate in a desultory manner. Wheaten cakes, again, with a little fish, but her greens were badly wilted, and there were no other fresh vegetables to speak of.

“Hades,” she began, “what season is it in the overworld?”

Hades paused, her chalice halfway to her lips. She set it down. “Summer, I should think.”

“Again?” Persephone dropped her knife. She looked down at her hands. She would never be as pale as Hades, but her skin had lost its sun-kissed glow, her freckles faded. She’d been here for more than a year, but she’d scarcely noticed the time passing. There was so much to do—her little infrastructure projects, the care and maintenance of her grove, of course, and the various official duties that she performed in her role as Hades’ consort.