‘More people are dying lately,’ Thanatos says. And when I look at him with shock he continues with a shake of his head. ‘I don’t know why, but there are certainly more than usual. I can manage for now but soon I’m not sure I’ll be able to fetch all the souls. Can we get some sort of contingency in place?’
‘Which god is having a tantrum this time?’ Hermes calls. ‘And do we think it’s plague or war? Shall we place bets?’
‘Bets?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t we investigate? If people are dying from unnatural causes we should –’
‘Oh, it happens,’ Thanatos says dismissively. ‘Human lives fall to the whims of the gods and we tidy up the mess – give it a few weeks and it’ll blow over. I just might need some help if the numbers keep swelling. I’d put my money on natural disaster – those gods love an earthquake.’
I’m not exactly reassured, but the court know better than me and they’re already on to the next point. I’ll have to take their word for it.
In court, Hades is incredible. He can settle disputes in seconds, juggle a thousand tasks, soothe anxieties before they’re even voiced. But when they leave he groans and buries his head in his hands and asks how much longer we must stayhere. He is a brilliant king – though he clearly hates it. I might be tired of the long hours, but I do not despise ruling the way he seems to. When I catch his eye he forces a smile, kisses my hand and performs a love he does not hold. Even that seems to tire him. In the mornings we eat breakfast in comfortable silence as he reads and I plan the day ahead. In the evenings we talk until the last stars appear in a sky we can’t see. It’s tiring and complicated and stressful, but for the most part I’m happy.
The only problem is that he’s clearly not.
It would be one thing if Hades were only sullen during the day, when we’re in front of everyone, but it’s when we’re alone too. For the first few weeks after we reunited it was bliss. We chatted and joked and spent all our time together, we moved back into the same room so the court wouldn’t ask questions, and we barely slept because we couldn’t stop talking.
But now more time has passed, he drops my hand like it burns him the moment we cross the threshold of our private rooms. He hardly looks at me. When he speaks it’s with forced politeness. It took him a week to finally relent and sleep in the same bed as me, and even then he rolled as close to the edge as possible. Now, as I begin the usual chatter that would take us to the early hours, he turns away.
‘Not tonight,’ he says.
‘Is something wrong?’ I sound affronted but I don’t mean to. I’m concerned more than I’m hurt.
‘It’s getting to me, that’s all,’ he says. ‘All this pretending … I’m not … I’m not like you. I don’t enjoy lying with my every expression or manipulating people with my every word. It’s draining.’
The silence drags between us in the pitch-black room. I can’t see him but I know his eyes are open, staring vacantly anywhere but towards me. His breathing draws out the seconds until I finally break.
‘You think this is easy for me?’ I ask. My voice is steely but somehow catches still. ‘Pretending to love you?’
‘Isn’t it?’
Is it? It’s satisfying, yes, to see the gods who don’t question us, the goddesses who stare on with jealousy, and to know that it’s working. They’re convinced. But losing those intimate grins and careless touches the moment a door shuts? To second-guess everything … it’s hard.
I can’t tell him that for the first time in my life I’m being myself. I’m not worrying about fitting the mould of a perfect daughter or a good girl. I rule. I say what I want. I don’t apologize for my power. I’m so tantalizingly close to enjoying that freedom, and I would be if I weren’t pretending not to desire the person I’m pretending to desire. It’s destroying me, one tiny gesture at a time. And I’m ignoring the way it hurts because I have so many other things to do, a whole turbulent realm to run. I don’t have time to think about how much these unrequited feelings are harming me. And I thought that couldn’t get worse but the fact it’s hurting him too is unbearable.
But I can’t tell him that.
‘I thought not,’ he says to my silence.
As I toss and turn that night, I know he’s not asleep either. But I can’t think of anything to say so I pretend he is. When it comes to Hades, it seems pretending is all I can do.
A few days later I wake him earlier than I usually would.
‘What are you –’
‘Come with me,’ I say, tying a ribbon round my green gown, the sheer fabric made opaque with layers that rustle like crunching leaves when I move.
‘Do you have any idea –’
‘Trust, dear husband,’ I insist.
He mutters something but acquiesces.
He dresses and, a few minutes later, we’re walking across our world. On the horizon are the human lands and the blue sky above it melts into the black hanging over us like an ink spill. We walk through the garden I planted only a few months ago, trees sprung high and bursting with fruit we can’t actually eat if we want the freedom to leave the Underworld as and when we please. The leaves flutter overhead, the soft grass crunches underfoot, and the sweet smell of apples, pomegranates and nectarines follows us long after we have left the garden and begun traipsing through meadows.
‘Why are we doing this?’ he asks. ‘We could shorten the distance with one of Hermes’ doors.’
‘Just because we can doesn’t mean we should,’ I say, surprised. How can he not love this? Every step I take seems to pulse through me. ‘Have you ever just taken the time to look and enjoy this world?’
Hades glances around and shrugs. ‘It’s certainly nicer than it was,’ he says. ‘But it is still just soil and air.’
