Hades sealed off Persephone’s nose with her thumb and forefinger and pressed her lips to Persephone’s, exhaling into her mouth. She repeated this three more times, then paused to see whether it had done any good.

Nothing yet.

Hades pressed her palms against the grass, their dried-out husks snapping as her fingers dug into the dirt. “Gaia, I beseech you, return your child to the waking world. Keep her from the unending gray. It is not yet her hour.”

There was no time to wait and see if her prayer had been heard. Hades wiped off her hands on her chiton and leaned over Persephone once more, sharing her breath. Persephone’s lips were turning blue. Hades silently projected her prayers, promising anything of worth to the Mother Goddess—devotion, libations, temples—anything, just to see Persephone smile once more.

She lost track of how long she’d been there, praying and breathing and not pausing to think, when she heard a sound.

Persephone inhaled.

27

CONFRONTATION

Persephone’s throat ached, as though she’d swallowed live coals. She coughed, then blinked, seeing stars.

The night sky was so lovely, so vast in its splendor. She relaxed to feel the living earth beneath her fingertips, and a contented smile crossed her face for a few moments.

“Persephone.”

She found Hades hovering near, wild of eye, her braids all in disarray, her chiton hanging loose from one shoulder.

Persephone sat up in alarm. The drakon. The fire. “How can you be here?” she croaked, then coughed, burying her face in her arm. She swallowed and tried again. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?” she asked, her voice rising on a note of hysterical terror.

Hades placed her hands on either side of Persephone’s face. “I am here, truly. We are in the overworld, and you are most certainly not dead.”

Persephone embraced her, pressing her face against the crook of Hades’ shoulder. Her hair smelled of smoke, or perhaps the wind was still bringing smoke toward them. “You came back for me,” she said, closing her eyes. No one had ever done that before. They might’ve seen something, heard something, but few dared defy Demeter.

“Always,” Hades said.

Persephone could have stayed like that forever, but her legs started to cramp, and it dawned upon her that they were still not safe. She drew back, brushing her hand across her eyes. Hades was missing a fibula. Persephone smoothed out the loose edges of Hades’ chiton and tucked them into the top of her strophion, turning her gown into a one-shouldered masterpiece. Aphrodite would’ve been so proud of her. “How are you here?” she asked as she adjusted the fabric.

“I gave Zeus something he wanted. His son, Pirithous.”

Persephone blinked. “But his judgment—”

Hades sighed. “He will be mine again, soon enough.” She shook her head, releasing Persephone. “I thought you would be safe. I never suspected—I should have—”