At Persephone’s feet knelt a naked man, his head pillowed on her lap. A heavy collar encircled his neck, set with the same onyx jewels that adorned Persephone’s crown. This must be Adonis. He wore not a scrap of clothing, only the blissful smile of one lost in a happy dream.
Heat crept over my face. ‘Don’t you have a cloak you could throw over him?’ I asked.
One of Persephone’s perfect eyebrows arched. ‘A guest in my home, and you presume to lecture me on proper attire? Eros was right. Youarea handful.’
‘You spoke to Eros?’ I asked, my heart rising.
‘I did. I was impressed that he made the journey here, and I am pleased to grant the boon he requested. I have beauty cream enough to spare.’
‘Thank you,’ I breathed. At least this part of my quest would go easily.
Persephone leaned forward. ‘But first, I must know: Do you actually love him?’ she asked. ‘Eros?’
I hesitated. This was a question I had asked myself often during my wanderings. I knew the answer but shied away from speaking it to this dread goddess.
My eyes flickered to Adonis. ‘Do you lovehim?’ I asked, indicating the sleeping man.
Persephone’s gaze slid down to rest on the man at her feet. ‘Does one love a fine cup or a well-made comb? He serves his purpose.’ Adonis shifted in his sleep, smacking his lips, and settled his head more comfortably on Persephone’s thighs. Theedges of her mouth quirked upward, not quite a smile, and she laid a gentle hand on his curls.
I stared at them. I once accused Eros of keeping me as a pet, as Persephone kept Adonis. I feared that the great gods had no concept of love, only possession. But then I thought of Zephyrus, his love for Hyacinthos undimmed by death. I thought of the way Eros had marvelled at my fight with the bandits and traded stories with me in the dark. He had never sought to make me his object, only his companion.
‘I do love Eros,’ I said simply.
Persephone tilted her head. ‘Fascinating. I never thought that little pest would win anyone’s love,’ she said. ‘He never had much interest in it before.’
‘Dread lady, all I ask is what you promised my husband.’ I bowed slightly.
‘Oh, don’t simper,’ Persephone retorted. ‘It doesn’t suit someone of your character.’
She snapped her fingers and a skeleton appeared from the darkness behind her throne. It walked as though it thought it was still human, despite the lack of flesh or muscle covering its long white bones. Balanced on its starburst of phalanges was a small wooden box, which the skeleton handed to me. It took all my strength not to recoil when I felt those cold digits brush mine.
‘Here is what you seek,’ Persephone said. ‘Do not open it yourself – leave that for Aphrodite. And when you see your husband again, remind him that I always repay those who grant me favours.’ She stroked Adonis’s hair.
I ran my fingers over the fine-grained wood of the box, carved with the sigil of a pomegranate. Persephone’s beauty cream.
I recalled Demeter’s words. ‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Your mother wishes me to relay a message. She sends her love.’
Persephone reared back on her throne, all goodwill vanished from her face. ‘This is no message. This is an intrusion.’
I was aghast at the cruelty of her response. ‘She loves you.’
Persephone was unmoved. ‘My mother loves what she believes me to be. If Demeter had her way, I would have spent my eternal existence hanging on her skirts, never realizing what I was capable of. I would be a little flower in the shadow of a wheat field, a minor deity associated with the goddess of harvest. Here, I am queen.’ She looked away from me into the distance.
‘I was terrified when Hades snatched me from that meadow, but I have made sure that things turned out for the best. I thought you would understand,’ the goddess added, her gaze swinging back to settle on me. ‘As someone else who stood in for her parents’ failed ambitions.’
The words were a blow. I thought of Alkaios, son of a hero but possessing no heroic gifts himself. Astydamia, robbed by illness of the martial training that was hers by right. My grief threatened to swallow me, but I steeled myself. ‘My parents have nothing to do with this.’
Persephone’s eyebrow arched. ‘I suppose not,’ she said. ‘I did not go from loving parents to a loving husband as you did. There was no safe harbour for me, so I had to become more terrible than what I endured.’
The faces of my parents and Iphigenia flashed through my mind. ‘Can I see them? My family?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Persephone replied, straight-backed on her throne. ‘The ones you loved are content in the Fields of Asphodel, insofar as any shades can be. Their stories are no longer interwoven with yours. Besides, you cannot speak to them if you ever hopeto leave this place, and that would not make for a particularly satisfying visit. Let them be.’
I felt gutted, like a razed house after a fire. This must have shown on my face, because the dread queen softened. ‘But there is one whose story I can show you,’ she told me.
She raised one hand in a sweeping gesture, like brushing a veil from a mirror, and the scene before my eyes changed. No longer was I gazing at the queen and her collared lover. Instead, I floated far above the familiar road of cypresses.
A figure walked that lonely path, and I recognized her with a jolt. Atalanta, her white hair bound back, her proud spine unbent from illness. My voice caught in my throat. I was not sure whether this was past or present, whether I was seeing something that had already happened or was yet to come.
