Ismaros wrapped his hand around her mouth. Persephone stiffened but forced herself to relax when she saw it was him.

“Begging your pardon,” he whispered, releasing her.

Her heartbeat seemed like it ought to give them away, it was so loud. “You startled me.”

“The wagon is ready.” Ismaros led her to the side of the stables, where he had hitched up a pair of horses to a wagon. “How do you mean to distract Cerberus?”

Persephone showed him her waterskin and bowl. “This skin contains broth along with Lethe’s water,” she said. “Offer this to him, and he will forget his purpose.”

Ismaros gravely took the items from her. “A wise choice,” he said. Next, he drew back a cloth, revealing a large storage chest nestled next to several amphora.

“In there?” Persephone asked. Small spaces did not suit her.

“It won’t be for long.” Ismaros unclasped the lid of the chest and opened it.

Persephone climbed onto the wagon and lowered herself into the box. She had to lie sideways in it, her knees folded next to her shoulders. Stray bits of hay lined the bottom of the chest, perhaps used as packing material for whatever had been transported previously. The tough fibers tickled her neck, and she longed for her soft and comfortable bed lined with furs in Hades’ palace.

“Not a word from now on, Lady Persephone,” Ismaros whispered and lowered the lid, plunging her into darkness.

Her breathing sounded too loud in the box. She heard Ismaros climbing onto the wagon and taking the driver’s seat, then flicking the reins. The horses began to move, and Persephone was jostled as the wheels ran over a bumpy patch of ground.

She gritted her teeth, taking a deep breath. This was temporary. She hugged her knees to her chest, wincing as every bump rattled the amphora in the wagon.

Ismaros drove for some time, quietly whistling to himself. Persephone wondered where she’d seen his face before. What had her mother promised him in exchange for her safe return?

Ismaros rapped on the chest. “We near Cerberus,” he said.

The wagon slowed to a halt, and she felt it shift as Ismaros hopped out. Cerberus growled, low in his throats.

Ismaros muttered something indistinctly. Persephone strained to hear, distracted by the sound of her own breathing.

Cerberus howled in triplicate, a tortured, lonely sound. The wagon rocked again as Ismaros leapt aboard, and he snapped the reins, the horses hurtling into a gallop.

Persephone rapped on the inside of the lid. “What happened?”

“He drank,” Ismaros said, sounding breathless. “But that noise! He could have woken half the palace.”