Demeter was pressing hard enough to leave bruises. “His ichor runs through your veins. How can I forget it, seeing it there plain on your face? Your father has whores in every corner of the civilized world. You know that, don’t you?”

Persephone fumbled for something to say that would not be considered blasphemous. “His children are many—”

“And you would seek to follow in his footsteps?”

“No—no!” Persephone’s throat constricted. Aphrodite had not divulged her secret, then. Her preference for goddesses was not a topic she particularly wished to discuss with Demeter, ever.

Demeter studied her. Persephone did her best to project an aura of frightened honesty. She spoke the truth, besides—though perhaps not all of it.

Demeter released her. “I cannot stand the sight of you,” she said, waving her off.

Persephone stepped away with relief, rubbing her shoulders. “I’m going to help in the kitchen,” she said and ran before Demeter could think of something else to blame her for.

The servants were quiet around Persephone, as if they could avoid invoking Demeter’s wrath by not engaging with the current object of her displeasure. That might have bothered Persephone, if she’d let it, but she was too busy contemplating how to defuse her mother’s anger to be concerned with the rest of the household.

She was lugging an overflowing pail of scraps to the midden when she saw the most remarkable thing mixed in with all the trash. Persephone set down the pail and pulled out a bouquet of cut flowers. They had some life left in them, although not much, their narrow white petals frail and wilting.

They would not respond to her touch. There was a kind of chill about them, despite both the heat of the summer’s day and the warmth of the midden.

Persephone saved the freshest stalk and brought it inside with her, placing it in a cup of water at her bedside. She tried running her fingertips over it again, and still, she could feel no sense of recognition in the plant. It wasn’t simply that it had been cut; there was something else wrong. As if it had died and been reborn and now was dying a second time.

Downstairs, she beckoned to a maid and pulled her aside. “Kyra... those white flowers. Who brought them?”

Kyra scrunched up her nose. “Couldn’t say, Miss. Only your mother’s sent word they’re not to be kept in the house.” She shrugged helplessly.

“You mean this has happened more than once?”

Kyra opened her mouth, then seemed to realize she’d said too much. “Well...”

“How many times?”

Kyra gulped and shook her head, silently begging Persephone not to ask more.

It was answer enough. Persephone sighed and waved Kyra off; she seemed grateful to return to her work.

How long would she let Demeter rule her life?