Hades ran her finger along the rim of her chalice. “No. And no one of importance saw you.” She raised her eyes, meeting Persephone’s. “You needed to see how futile it was.”

“I’ll never stop trying to escape you,” Persephone said.

“Then you are bound to be disappointed.”

Hades’ confidence, her conceit, was just as bad as any god’s and not at all becoming on someone of the gentler sex. Persephone stabbed a morsel on her plate with her knife, imagining it to be Hades’ face.

A bard began a series of songs praising her virtues and Hades’, sensationalized in the way of lyric poets and highly inaccurate. Persephone stared longingly at her knife. If she were mortal, she would’ve had some semblance of choice over her own destiny. Now even that was denied to her.

“Would you care to dance?” Hades asked.

Persephone shook her head. She could think of nothing less suited to her mood.

Hades stood, joining the rest of the assembled dancers midway through a song. They parted to admit her, their eyes shining with honor to have their queen beside them.

She danced well enough, a bright star in her white chiton amidst her guests’ peacock-like finery. Persephone could not bear to watch. She left the table and slipped out of the hall into the adjoining courtyard.

Once she was outside, she found that the cavernous sky, bereft of stars, did nothing for her nerves. She lurched toward the nearest planter and vomited up half her dinner, clutching the sides of the planter with both hands to steady herself.

“Is there anything I can do to help you, mistress? More water?”

Persephone wiped her face with the back of her hand and turned to find Xenia shadowing her. “I’m fine,” Persephone said.

“Of course,” Xenia said. “Every bride is nervous.”

“I’m not every bride!”

“And the Ruler of Many will not be any old boorish groom.”

Persephone laughed. “How do you know that?”

“I would trust her with my own daughter.”

It occurred to Persephone that she knew nothing of the woman’s life before her death. “You have children?”

“Four who lived to maturity, praise the gods. And many descendants after them.”

“You’re not my mother,” Persephone said.

“Of course not. I would never dream to put myself beside the generous Demeter. But if I may offer you some comfort whilst you are bereft a mother’s counsel, then I will do whatever is in my power to guide you.”

Persephone placed a hand over her throbbing forehead. “You can’t help me. No one here can, except the one who won’t.”

If she looked at Xenia now, she would cry, and so she stared instead at the nearest tree, an ornamental fig. Its leaves were smooth and soothed her fingers, though they did not respond to her touch as they ought to do.