Persephone grabbed his other arm, leading him out of the house before her mother could hurl anything else. Once they were a safe distance outside, she released him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea she would treat you so badly.”

Hephaestus squeezed wine from his tunic. “It’s quite all right. Ares warned me about her temper, but I didn’t listen. I thought she might look upon me more favorably. I was wrong.”

“Ares?” Persephone asked.

Hephaestus glanced away. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn. You didn’t know he was trying to court you?”

Persephone grimaced. “There was that year I received a severed gorgon head as a present, but I thought... Mother said it was a mistake. I didn’t actually see him in person.”

“Demeter has something of a reputation.”

“How long has this been going on?” Persephone asked. The gorgon head incident felt like it had been years ago; decades, even.

Hephaestus grimaced. “I don’t know. A while, perhaps.” He hesitated. “You may think this cowardly of me, but I have no desire to cross the goddess of the harvest. A pity. If you manage to change her mind, by all means, send a message to my forge.”

Persephone smiled to hide her mixed emotions. “Of course. I understand.”

Hephaestus pressed a kiss to the back of her hand and bowed slightly before leaving her alone in the gardens. She watched him walk back to his chariot, and then he was away, with no one left to stand between herself and Demeter.

She took slow, measured steps up the path back to the house. Inside, servants had already cleared away the wreckage of Demeter’s temper, leaving the floor clean, albeit damp. Demeter herself was seated, idly shredding a lettuce leaf between her fingers.

“Well?” she asked as Persephone approached. “Did he see reason?”

“He left,” Persephone said.

“Good.”

“Mother...” Persephone hesitated. “He said you treated Ares in a similar manner.”

Demeter dropped the lettuce. “Of course. I don’t discriminate.”

“But why? They are both worthy gods, aren’t they?”

Demeter rose from her seat and walked toward her, placing her hands upon Persephone’s shoulders. She gazed down at her daughter, her eyes dark and solemn, the afternoon sun setting her pale hair aglow. “None of them are worthy.” Her grip tightened until her nails dug into Persephone’s skin. “Anyone who would take you from me is my enemy.”

Persephone pushed back against her mother’s hands, but Demeter’s hold was firm. “Mother, please... You’re frightening me.”

“Swear to me, then,” Demeter said, shaking her by the shoulders. “Swear that you will not leave me.”

“Of course. Of course,” Persephone said, the words slurring together as she tripped over her tongue. “I do so swear.”