Page 149 of Hades

I held her tighter.

Because something was wrong.

Something was coming.

And the waiting was worse than any threat I could name.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Lettie

The kitchen table had disappeared under jars and labels and twine.

I’d been working since dawn packing products, organizing inventory, making lists of what still needed to be done before Harvest Week officially started tomorrow.

Lavender soap wrapped in brown paper and tied with purple ribbon. Chamomile tea in small muslin bags with hand-stamped labels. Salves in tin containers. Lotions in glass bottles. Bundles of dried flowers tied with raffia. Everything smelled like earth and herbs and the careful work of my hands.

This was the version of me the town knew. The helpful girl who made things that soothed and healed. The quiet woman who sold products at festivals and never caused trouble. The one people came to when they needed sleep or pain relief or something they couldn’t ask for out loud.

She wasn’t the woman who grew hemlock behind a locked gate.

Cerberus lay near the back door, watching me move between the table and the counter. His presence was steady. Grounding. He’d been restless the past few days, but this morning he seemed calmer. As though he’d accepted whatever was coming and decided to wait it out beside me.

I wished I had his patience.

My hands moved on autopilot, tying labels, stacking jars, checking off items on my list. But my mind kept circling back to the wrongness that had been building all week.

My mother.

She’d been in the kitchen three times already this morning. Three times. Asking questions. Watching me work. Smiling in that strange, anticipatory way that made my skin crawl.

“What are you bringing to the festival, dear?”

“When are we leaving tomorrow?”

“Where will the booth be this year?”

“How long do you think we’ll stay?”

Not cruel questions. Not sharp or cutting. Just interested. Engaged. Happy.

And that was worse than any insult she’d ever thrown at me.

Because my mother was never happy. She was bitter. Resentful. Angry at the world for trapping her in a life that hadn’t turned out the way she’d planned.

But this week? She was almost giddy.

I tied another ribbon around a bar of soap and added it to the basket. My fingers were steady even though my pulse wasn’t.

The pattern had been there all along. I just hadn’t looked closely enough.

Every year, my mother helped at Harvest Week. Only Harvest Week. Not the spring festival. Not the summer markets. Not the Christmas bazaar. Just this one. Just the week in October when the whole town gathered to celebrate the end of growing season and the beginning of winter preparation.

She’d leave her room. Get dressed. Ask questions. Smile. Participate.

And then, the day after the festival ended, she’d retreat back into her den and stay there until the following October.

I’d always assumed it was because Harvest Week was the biggest event. The most important. The one that mattered.