Persephone was due to return to the overworld a few days hence. All her things were packed. She traveled light—her estate at Epirus was well-established, and her household knew her preferences. “If I don’t see her, she’ll keep harassing me, and it’ll be worse up there. She might even show up in person.” Demeter hadn’t thus far crossed that line, but her missives before hadn’t been quite so insistent, either. “What do you think I should do?” Persephone asked.

Hades shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“You must have an opinion.”

“In this case, it is irrelevant.”

Persephone looked around at the mess she’d made, at the letters fallen to the ground like dry leaves. Bitter, nasty leaves. If she’d had Hades’ abilities, she’d snap her fingers and turn them all to ash.

“What will you do?” Hades repeated.

Persephone rubbed at her temples. “If I go, she’ll see she can breach the rules I’ve set at any point. But if I don’t go, I’ll always be afraid during my time in the overworld. I’ll always dread that knock on my door.”

“Did you find a sorceress to renew the wards around the estate?” Hades asked.

Persephone sighed. “Not one whose skills pleased me. Sorcery is a dying art among mortals, it seems.”

“A pity.”

Persephone fingered the chain around her neck. She might never be free of it, not unless she asked the immortal Circe for aid. The thought did not bother her unduly much. “I should give her a chance. To apologize.” Demeter’s letters had hinted at such a possibility, but whether it was her mother’s words or her scribes’ presumptions, Persephone could not tell.

“If you must,” Hades said. “But prepare yourself for disappointment.”

Persephone smiled, the muscles in her cheeks feeling overly tight. “Always, where she’s concerned.”

The late winter air was mild by the underworld’s standards, and yet Demeter had led her near a crackling fire, trapped indoors with nowhere to run. Persephone held her clasped hands in her lap and tapped a finger against her wrist, unable to keep still.

Demeter’s house had grown over the years, with rooms added and walls demolished so that her receiving room no longer matched the images of Persephone’s childhood. Still, some things were familiar—a large tapestry of a threshing floor on the wall, and the table in the center of their klinai.

Pleasantries had been exchanged and then some. Demeter looked much the same as ever, agelessly beautiful. She had changed something about her hair, her golden braids looped in intricate knots like the snakes of the Erinyes.

A servant came by to pour more wine. Persephone didn’t recognize his face.

“I expect you’ll be wanting to celebrate the Mysteries this year,” Demeter said.

“The what?” Persephone asked.