Power that he’s now handed me by telling me all this.
‘You have too high an opinion of my father if you think he’dlisten to anything I have to say on the matter. I could probably go with a full report and he’d still ignore it.’
‘Trust me, few people could manage a lower opinion of Zeus than the one I hold.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
He sighs but there’s amusement there and the tension dissipates, just a touch. ‘Not everything is a competition. That’s the point.’
‘All right, but most things are. You’re just grumpy I won and you couldn’t scare me off.’
‘I think I did a remarkable job, personally. Acting the part and everything.’
‘All the theatrics …’ I realize. ‘The smoke and the tremors … they’re all an act too, right?’
‘They always have been.’ He smiles and the smoke appears. Then it turns pink, then blue, then stops being smoke altogether and becomes flowers instead. ‘The first beings Zeus rescued in the war were the cyclopes. In return, they made things for us – Zeus’s thunderbolt and Poseidon’s trident. I was given a helmet that rendered the wearer invisible. Before Zeus took the throne and dished the domains out as spoils of war, the domain used to claim the god. The moment that helmet touched my head, some form of magic claimed me. I think I’m the god of illusion, really, or something like that. I was a child training for war when I was given this realm. If I’d veiled myself in ocean spray I imagine it would be Poseidon down here now. But I wanted the Underworld – what was it you said? – somewhere to run away to. So I wreathed myself in a shroud of darkness and the whispers of the dead and Hell was mine.’
I stare, unable to do much else. It’s one thing after the next.‘I’ll swear on the Styx,’ I say. ‘Like the nymphs do. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘You don’t need to swear to it. I know you wouldn’t tell anyone.’ I must show my disbelief because he laughs. ‘You found a loophole in wards made by a dozen deities, ran to Hell without telling anyone and presumably kept much of who you are a secret your entire life. I can trust you with this, I think.’
I nod. ‘Right. I won’t say a word. Come on, it’s my turn now.’
‘What?’
‘Well, did you want to see my plans for this realm or not?’
‘I …’
‘This is a lot, Hades. Thank you. So … yes, if you can trust me with this, I can trust you in return. Let’s go talk about the afterlife.’
I show him my idea. Three separate parts: a paradise, the details of which I’m still filling in; a deterrent, filled with terrors I’m still ruminating over; and something in between.
Spoken aloud, it’s more than I thought I had.
Leaning over the documents, we’ve become a little too close and I think of his hand in mine earlier. Is it worrying, how natural it’s becoming to gravitate towards each other?
‘I like it,’ he says simply.
I don’t think I realized how much his approval means to me. It’s more than just his favour: I’m being encouraged rather than dissuaded from the sort of thing I’ve always wanted, supported rather than told it’s beyond me to make a difference to this world.
Just three little words – and they mean everything.
WHEN I RETURN TO MYroom after breakfast the next morning, a painting hangs above the bed. It’s stunning, as all of Hades’ creations are. It’s both lifelike and too iridescent to truly replicate life – deep, like he’s captured something more than an image in the paint.
And it pictures a field of asphodel. The flower I created only days ago. Which means he’s painted this while I’ve been here.
I bite my lip but I’m not able to stop my smile. When did he work on this? When did he decide to share it, no, give it to me? The gift feels even more intimate than yesterday’s revelation and I immediately begin to spiral. Why has he done this? What does he want from me in return? What does it mean?
Then I take a deep breath and allow myself to simply enjoy it.
On closer inspection, I see Hades has used thick, clumpy paint so that the petals are raised from the surface. He’s made the pollen black, even though asphodel’s real pollen is orange, and now I wish I’d chosen this more striking colour. The paintis pure and pitch. It’s darker than Hades’ eyes but nonetheless it reminds me of them, like if I stare hard enough I might get sucked into the shadows.
It’s actually very annoying that the painting is so good. It doesn’t seem right for someone with their own world to be this talented. Every time Mother put a brush in my hand, I’d dip my fingers into the paint instead and leave, spattered, with thousands of ideas brimming of new flowers to create.
Hades would make the perfect daughter. Though I only mean it with snide humour, the thought sobers me. This genuinely is all Mother ever wanted from me. And then what? If I had been talented like this would she have seen it? Would she have praised me until the thought of doing anything else was sickening? Or would she have seen the raised bumps I find so wonderful as flaws to be sanded? Would she have found something else to pick at? And, even if she hadn’t, what would I have been other than a bundle of skills she could market? Would my father look at my work with a satisfied nod? Would he agree this is what I am good at – all I am good at – and wonder how he ever could have worried I might challenge him when I’m only a little girl good with a brush?
I suddenly feel a lot more confident about my ability to change this realm simply because my parents would never expect it of me. And it seems I am very good at doing the things they don’t expect.
