The fields and small villages were long gone. They emerged from the plains, and the chariot began winding around a rocky mountainside. As they ascended, she saw the lands of Hades’ domain spread out before her. To the south was a marshland where the rivers met and the great gates which Cerberus guarded. To the east were the Asphodel Fields, with its tiny villages dotted upon the landscape like seeds sprinkled upon wheat cake. To the north, Hades’ palace loomed, with its glittering walls of obsidian.

The higher they traveled, the colder it grew. The wind whipping her face chilled her to the bone. Her head felt as though it could drift away, but she was certain it was simply a result of her nervous state and dehydration.

“Take me back to the palace,” Persephone said.

Xenia took one glance at her. At first she seemed poised to argue, but then she simply nodded. “Of course.” She slowed the chariot and turned it around in a wide arc, backtracking part of the way to return to the road leading to the palace. Persephone massaged her temples and tried to focus on not vomiting as the landscape flew by, the greens and golds in the fields blurring into a long streak of muddy ochre.

The chariot pulled up near a side entrance and Persephone leapt down, eager for her feet to touch solid ground once more. Xenia followed soon after.

“Perhaps you might like to visit the scribes this afternoon, or see the Hall of Judgment—”

“No. I don’t want to see anything else. I’m not a tourist. I’m not a guest. I’m Hades’ prisoner, and you might as well stop pretending otherwise,” Persephone said as she strode down the cool and dark corridors, her sandals loud against the polished tiles.

“My lady—”

Persephone rounded on Xenia. “What? What is it?”

Xenia wrung her hands together. “Your room might not be ready. We have cleaning scheduled for this time and—”

“I don’t care.” Persephone turned right at the next corner, relieved that her sense of direction had proven correct as she recognized the door to her chambers. It would have been utterly embarrassing to learn that she’d been walking the wrong way.

She flung open the doors, expecting to see one or two girls scrubbing floors, but was met with an astonishing tableau. There was a whole troupe of servants in her room, who all turned as one and stared at her, eyes wide and mouths agape.

Spread out on the bed was the loveliest chiton Persephone had ever seen. It was the color of fig skins, a deep purple traced over with gold embroidery. Its hem dripped with tiny jewels and sparkling beads sewn in patterns of trailing vines and flowers. Three servants fussed over it, one with a needle and thread in her hand, affixing a loose gem to the shoulder.