It’s possible, I suppose, that his powers are immense and he can pull a room from existence in seconds, but that seems unlikely. He is king of the shades, receiver of the dead, lord of the Underworld – his powers shouldn’t stretch to manipulating architecture. The palace would have to be designed this way. Which means he didn’t hide these spaces when I got here, they’ve been hidden for a while – a secret he’s keeping from his own court.
In my explorations, I find a somewhat dusty study and wonder which god of the court normally occupies it. The shelves are mostly empty – a few lingering documents detail the number of souls entering the Underworld on any given day. The ceiling is low and the candles lining the walls make it feel close. In a desk drawer I find an old petteia board and sit playing, spinning the board round to become my own opponent.
Dinner must be soon – I should go back to my room and attempt to run a comb through my hair, though I’m sure I’ll fail quite miserably. Cyane always insists on doing my hair, holding it at the roots so she can tug the knots out without hurting me. She’ll know I’m missing by now. She might even have found a way to get a message to Olympus. My mother might –
The door behind me opens with such force it slams into thewall. I turn to see the air shimmer and solidify as often happens with wind nymphs, but I’m still waiting for her to fully appear when I realize the process is complete. Nymphs look human until they sink into the nature their spirit connects to – but this woman is translucent, tinted grey with wild, frizzy hair and a dress that clings like mist.
‘Hades has requested your – what was it he said – “grating company” at dinner,’ she says, her voice straining, like finding the air to speak is a struggle.
‘I’ll be down,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
The woman glares, apparently incredibly irked to be in conversation with me. ‘Tempest.’
I’d offer mine but it feels especially wrong down here – a name for a naive child, not a woman so attuned to the world’s horrors she ran whole realms to escape them. ‘And you’re, what, Hades’ servant?’
‘If you like.’
‘And you’re a wind nymph?’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘Yes. Do you have any other inane questions? Perhaps you’d like to know if Hades is king or if you’re an unwanted interloper in this land?’
I think I should be hurt but I can’t help it, I laugh. I’ve never met a hostile nymph before. They’re nature spirits and most are so many years old their moods take seasons to change. Tempest lifts her chin and watches me through careful eyes.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But you’re a wind nymph in the Underworld? How did that happen?’ Nymphs don’t have immortal souls. They fade and reform, a constant cycle.
‘I’m a storm nymph.’
‘Ah – and storms die out?’ I guess.
‘Dying is how most of us end up in the Underworld,’ she says bluntly. ‘I’ll be a breeze again in a few years. It would be longer but Hades offers us a deal: serve him for our time here and he’ll make that time considerably shorter.’
A wave of repulsion washes over me. ‘Serve him as in …’
‘As in tell spoilt goddesses to get to dinner.’
I don’t know if she’s being obtuse or if she doesn’t understand. I never thought I would have to explain innuendo to a nymph.
Frustrated with my silence, she throws her head back and answers what I’m really asking. ‘Urgh, no. Serve him in domestic tasks only. I don’t know if he’s not interested, we’re not his gender of choice, or half-corporeal nature spirits just don’t do it for him but, as far as I’m aware, that’s never been part of the deal.’
I nod but my mind is whirring again and I have to remind myself that if Hades was going to press that advantage with me he’d have done it already.
‘Are you done with your interrogation now?’ Tempest demands.
‘Most servants don’t speak like this to guests,’ I muse, though it’s clear I’m not bothered.
‘Hades makes no demands on our bodies and none on decorum either.’
‘Really?’ I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
She shrugs. ‘He says he doesn’t care for false platitudes or anyone debasing themselves for his benefit.’
That is definitely odd. The other kings – Poseidon and my father – love nothing more than people debasing themselves. They raise themselves up by forcing others down. Why wouldn’t Hades do that?
‘Well, that is something,’ I say, finding myself smiling.
‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’
I shouldn’t be. Seeing Hades in any kind of positive light could be ruinous so I clutch at what I can show disdain for. ‘So you serve him for the sake of spending fewer years down here?’
