“Me? Why should I do anything?” Hades asked. “I have not abandoned all sense of duty, of mercy. I have done nothing wrong.”

“One of you must yield,” Hermes said. “For all our sakes.”

Hades stood very still, save for a muscle twitching under her left eye. Then she exhaled, her shoulders dropping. “You must be tired after your journey. Go avail yourself of my hospitality and rest. My answer will be with you on the morrow.”

Hermes shifted from foot to foot, the wings on his sandals fluttering. “Zeus expected me to return this evening—”

“Zeus can wait.”

“As you say.” He nodded to Hades. “Little sister,” he said by way of parting to Persephone, and then left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as his footsteps receded in the distance, Hades took something from her belt and threw it at the door. It all happened so quickly that Persephone jumped at the thud. The door sprouted the hilt of Hades’ dagger at head height, the metal still quivering.

“Damn him. Damn your mother and damn Zeus for letting her indulge in her worst despotic fantasies!”

Persephone’s first instinct was to deny it, but she could not. Not after meeting with the dead, not after seeing their tiny babes in their arms—premature, sickly before their time. The adults and older children might remake their images—appearance was malleable among the dead—but the infants? What would happen to them? Would they ever age?

Demeter would see reason. She had to.

Hades ran a hand over her braids, mussing them. She glanced at Persephone, as if surprised to find her still there, and jerked her chin toward a kline. “Sit down. We must discuss your mother.”

“I can do so on my feet—”

“Sit. Down.”

Persephone sat on the edge of the kline, her back rigid.

Hades remained standing. “Tell me about Demeter,” she said.

“She’s the goddess of the harvest, of fertility—”

“That is common knowledge. What was she like as a mother? How does she treat her human subjects?”

Persephone fought for something to say. “She looked after me when I was young. She doesn’t like soft cheeses. I’ve never seen her harm a human.” She bit her lower lip. “She is my mother. You must know her as a peer.”

“Demeter has many faults, but I never once thought she would turn her back on her own progeny.”

“She did not neglect me.”

“Then why was Stephanus the first person to teach you your letters? Why is your swordsmanship lacking, your mathematics dire, and your knowledge of history non-existent?”

Persephone’s cheeks flushed to hear herself described in such a manner. “It’s not her fault. I’m simply a poor student.”