‘Please remember that I did ask nicely.’
‘You didn’t actually ask –’
‘I invoke xenia in the name of Hestia,’ I say. It seems impossible that there could be a breeze down here but I feel it nonetheless. The hearth behind me crackles louder, Hestia’s power filling the room. My hair lifts, my gown flows behind me, and the words fly to my tongue before I can think them, like Hestia herself has offered the incantation. ‘I am far from home and under your roof, and I request safety. I request hospitality and a place at your hearth.’
Before I can finish my sentence Hades is in front of me, a foot away, and that dark cloud surrounds us. His face is twisted with a kind of fury I’ve never seen before, like I’ve wronged him in the worst possible way.
‘Is this really how you want to do this, goddess of flowers?’ he asks, voice low, and I’m not sure if he means it to be threatening but it is. His jaw is tight. His hand shakes round his sceptre. The torches flicker until the smoke blocks them from view and the ground tremors beneath us. I step forward, closing the little space between us and staring right up at him, as challenging as I can be, twisting my delicate features into a sneer. This feels incredible. Power. Gods, so many years regretting asking for it and I was right all along. This is what I want.
‘I tried another way,’ I say. ‘So, are you going to show me to my room now?’
His nostrils flare with every sharp breath he takes. I have trapped him and he knows it. Forsaking xenia would lead to a curse no immortal would risk, even if the alternative is the wrath of Olympus. But now I fear he may be just as likely to spite me with his answer as Zeus.
‘Mark my words, you will regret this,’ he says.
I think of the smarmy men begging my mother for my hand in marriage. I think of regret, and I smile. ‘I don’t see how.’
‘Flowers don’t last long in the Underworld; I doubt you will either.’
Hades snaps his fingers and the wind swirls, pushing me a step back.
‘You may have your safety,’ Hades says. ‘You shall have shelter and I’ll even dismiss the court. I will tell no soul ofyour whereabouts. But I make no claims on the spirits of this realm, so if safety means that much to you I’d suggest you keep your head down. If you step from this palace you do so at your own risk. And I suggest you avoid me for the duration of your time here. I do not take kindly to being extorted.’
With that he turns. The wind roots me to the spot until he has swept from the halls.
And Mother likes to callmedramatic.
THE SECOND THE DOORS SLAMshut behind Hades, those strange winds stop holding me in place and start pushing me towards the same doors that just closed, huge wooden arches that I remember opening before me at my amphidromia to reveal a room full of gods. They swing open for me, and from the marble hallway I hear voices.The court.Which Hades is dismissing. Fates, I didn’t even think of that. How long have I been planning this and I didn’t once think about the other inhabitants of the Underworld? I’ve been so focused on whether or not Hades is a threat that I didn’t even think of the rest of his realm.
I’m dragged in the opposite direction. I stumble down twisting corridors, the wind only stopping when I’m standing in front of another door – a much smaller one. It doesn’t open itself but, the moment I try to step away, the wind pushes me firmly back towards it.
‘What are you?’ I ask the empty hall. ‘An aurae?’
I can’t imagine there are wind nymphs in the Underworld but whatever it is doesn’t reply so I relent and open the door.It’s a bedroom – my bedroom, I suppose. I wonder if this too is a replica of a room on Olympus. It’s not large but compared to my tiny room in my ramshackle cottage it feels enormous. The bed itself could fit three bodies; two wardrobes stand with doors open, revealing empty insides; and a small table is tucked in the corner, two chairs drawn up to it. Everything is white: pale wood, cold sheets, marble walls and hazy curtains. It smells stagnant and dusty. I don’t imagine Hell gets many guests.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror of the vanity table tucked beneath the curtained window. Only a few locks of my hair remain in Mother’s tight pins and the escaped strands are already knotting round them.
I run my fingers along the door, searching for a latch, and breathe a sigh of relief when I find a sliding bolt. It won’t keep Hades out in his own realm but it is reassuring nonetheless.
When the door is secure I collapse against it and let myself feel, just for a moment, the weight of what I have done. When it threatens to overwhelm me I push it all back and cross to the window.
Twitching the curtain open, I see nothing but darkness. It’s night, then. I should sleep, start fresh in the morning, let my hurt wash away overnight. But I can’t. If I want to survive here, then I have work to do.
By morning, my hands are raw from the pokes of the needle. I couldn’t exactly pack a bag so I’ve made clothes from bedsheets I hope Hades won’t miss. Unfortunately, they’re all white. Any plans I had to distance myself from my virginal curse of a name are scuppered by dressing like its embodiment. Still, thedresses contain pouches and pockets to hold food in case I need to run quickly – and huge slashes so I can reach for my sickle if it’s needed. I hope it isn’t. There are goddesses that are good with weapons, but I’ve never done anything more than wave a stick at an imaginary enemy – hardly Athena born on to a battlefield fully armed.
The wind blows the door open and carries with it a bowl of hot, soapy water that I wash my face and hands with. The door is left ajar, which I take as an invitation.
When I step out a shadow is thrown down the hall and it takes me a moment to recognize it as my own; in the torchlight it is darker, longer and more grotesque than I’ve ever seen it. I glance at the walls, the impressive heights and intricate designs. It’s like living in a mausoleum.
I wind along hallways, past rows of shut doors. Whenever I encounter a fork, only one way is lit. I’m being led somewhere. Instantly, I want to go in the opposite direction, to see what I’m not supposed to, but I might as well find out what I’m being guided towards. The torches linger on a stairway and at its base I find an arch. Irises and gardenia are inscribed into its sides and I trace them, wondering whether they were Hades’ choice or part of an Olympian decoration. It seems strange for Father to decorate his palace with the very thing he insults me with, the domain he bestowed on me, but then perhaps not. Flowers are for decoration, pretty things to stare at and nothing more. I wonder if that’s how he’s pitching my hand in marriage.
‘Well, don’t just stand in the hallway.’ Hades’ voice shoots down my spine and my hand flies from the wall. My eyes flash around the room while my hand skips to my sickle, and I force myself to calm down. I am safe. From direct attack at least.
I pocket the fear instead, let it inspire the right performance. I think of every time my mother’s words have rooted me to the spot and every time I have bitten my tongue, shown her a smile instead of baring my teeth. What am I, if not an expert at maintaining a facade?
I turn into the room. It’s long and narrow, lit by candles in a chandelier and the crackling flames of a fireplace, warmer light than the torches in the rest of the palace. A mahogany table fills the space, long enough for forty and set for two. Hades sits at the end and it’s difficult to look at anything that’s not him. Last I saw him he was hissing in my face. Now he does not even deign to look up from the parchment he reads, not even while he reaches for a grape. His aura lingers but it’s dimmer, clinging close to his skin like a shroud of darkness.
I stand in the doorway, watching as he picks at the food. Hesitantly, I take a step into the room. I am not exactly faking my uncertainty but I’m definitely exaggerating it and at my movement Hades’ hand flicks from the empty plate beside him to the fireplace.
