‘WE CAN’T KEEP GOING ONlike this,’ I say the next morning, my head resting on his chest.
‘I know.’
‘Do we need to head to Olympus and demand they do something?’
‘That might be seen as a touch aggressive but, yes, that may be our only option. Let’s give Zeus a week to reply to your letter first.’
‘Fine, but you need to paint or weave orsomething. You’re too tense.’
‘I can think of other ways to release tension.’ He coils my hair round his finger.
A shiver runs down my spine but I refuse to be distracted. ‘As fun as that is, it’s not a replacement. You should create even if it’s just for an hour a day.’
‘I’ll take an hour to create when you take an hour to garden.’
‘It’s not the same. I’m the goddess of life – it’s not like flowers are all I have any more.’
‘I’m the god of illusions, not paintbrushes. You’re allowed to have hobbies, dear.’
‘Not in a crisis.’
‘Then my studios remain locked.’
‘Hades,’ I plead but I don’t really know how to argue that he should do something I won’t allow myself to do. ‘I’m tired and I’m overworked, that’s all. You’re going without something essential.’
‘An hour,’ he says. ‘That’s all I’m asking for – and we should give that time to the other gods too. We’re already behind – it won’t make much difference.’
‘All right, fine. But back to those other ways to ease tension …’ I hook a leg over him, press my body to his and push aside his cloak to run my thumb over a mark I left a few days ago, the purple so faded it’s hardly visible. I push myself against the bone of his hip.
‘As a negotiation tactic this is poor. You’ve already agreed.’
‘Very well. Shall I take myself to the garden?’ I feign moving away.
He grabs my wrist and tugs me back to him. I topple on to him, every line of his body pressed flush against mine. His hands hold my hips firmly in place, lest I try to leave the bed again. ‘Don’t you dare.’
And we waste no further time before releasing our remaining tension.
Later, somewhat dishevelled and with a mark of my own hidden beneath the high lace neck of my dress, I find myself in the garden, not sprouting flowers but harvesting from the trees. Their quick growth is no surprise but that I’m here is.Despite the overlap between my mother and me, harvesting remains her domain.
With each fruit I pick, her words ring in my ears in a turbulent cacophony. An apple: ‘You’re many things, Kore, but I didn’t think you were this cruel.’ A mango: ‘Do you really think that if I had the power to keep you safe myself, then I wouldn’t choose to have you by my side forever?’ A pomegranate: ‘I love you, my dear, but you are not powerful.’
My mother has run circles round me my entire life but I’ve never been more confused – too busy, too distracted by the consequences to really reckon with the fact that she’s actually letting people die like this. To get me back from Hades? Yes, I could believe she would do that. But to force me to leave a world of my own, a world where I have power and have achieved impossible things? I would have thought my mother would sacrifice her happiness for mine a thousand times over – so why is she doing this?
I try to turn my attention back to the garden, the orchard so thick you could get lost inside it, the trees bursting with fruit. Beyond are the glistening mortal plains, stretching up to the very sky itself, which is splattered with my stars.
I did this.
I built a home. And I’mnotleaving it.
The leaves above me rustle and through them flies Hermes, his hair blown into a tangled nest, a burnt red tinge to his light brown, wind-chapped skin. His winged sandals flap frantically as he comes to rest before me. From the haste and solemn look on his face, he’s not bringing good news.
‘Mother or Father?’ I ask.
‘Both.’
I sigh and flowers swallow us. We spring free in the courtyard and I march towards the library while Hermes mutters, ‘I hate when you do that.’
‘You’re the god of transport.’
