She circled around the other side to reach the door, relieved to find it still felt cool to the touch. “Persephone?” She rapped on the door but received no answer.

She stepped back. A locked draw bar stood in her way, placed across the door to hold it secure. Hades unfastened the fibula on her left shoulder and stuck its pin in the keyhole, using the edge of the hole to bend the tip of the pin. She crouched down and inserted her makeshift pick further into the lock, bringing her ear close to hear the click of the tumblers.

It had been some time since she’d picked a lock. Centuries, perhaps. Fortunately, human development in this area had not progressed significantly since the last time she’d tried. That, or Demeter simply had not bothered to secure her valuables more carefully.

There was one final click as the lock disengaged. Hades moved the bar, sliding it free and flinging the door open. Her heart stopped cold. She’d tarried too long.

Persephone lay on the floor like a corpse, her pallor ghastly in the light of the orange flame flickering from the back of the cellar. Her hair fell loose around her head in an arc, her eyes closed as though in slumber, her long lashes dusted with soot. The folds of her chiton clung to her like clouds veiling the perfection of the night sky.

She looked so beautiful.

Ichor was smeared across her knuckles, and a line of bruises encircled her throat, but a second glance confirmed those injuries were superficial. Far more concerning was her lack of consciousness.

Hades crouched down and scooped Persephone into her arms, bringing her out into the fresh air. She carried her past the dirt ring encircling the building and laid her down on a patch of dry and yellow grass. The moonlight cast shadows upon Hades’ face as she kneeled, Persephone’s body sprawled as though lifeless upon the ground before her; the keeper of the dead cradling the herald of life. An image for the Muses.

Perhaps this was her punishment for finally wanting something, for needing something for herself alone; not because it bettered her realm or her people, but because she desired it. Desired her.

She brushed the hair from Persephone’s face to observe her breath, her fingers alighting on Persephone’s wrist to feel her pulse. She was not breathing and lay still, so still, as if the Moirai were mocking Hades for her vices.

Hades would know if she were dead—even now, with her hands trembling and a ringing buzz in her head so loud that it could not possibly be due to the necklace’s charm—but even the gods needed air.

She would have to breathe for them both.