The afternoon hangs hot and endless. I'm working at my loom in the courtyard, under the shade of the overhang. The warp threads, pulled taut by their silver weights, are blue like the sky after twilight, when night deepens its hold. I've just started on the background. The fabric is smooth and free of blemish. I run my finger down the suspended threads. They're waiting to see what life I'll weave into them.

   Plain blue would be too simple. Where's the art in that? I used to weave fabric without pattern when I was little, back and forth, back and forth, learning to get the tension even. But now I know what I'm doing. First, a border. I pick up the black yarn. It's mysterious against the blue, like a shadow at night. I start with horses running across the top of the fabric. It's coming so easily today; I'm weaving them as smoothly as the fates weave mortal lives, measuring out the length of their thread, the number of their days.

   Over the sounds of fountains and birds, I hear steady footsteps. My mother must be on her way to the groves. Now that she's cautioned me, she wants to be friends again. She comes over to look at my work and smiles with rare approval.

   "You've learned well. This is a gracious design. I can almost feel the wind under their feet. And your colors are pleasingly subtle."

   Then she's gone across the paving stones, under the fig trees and out of sight.

   I could stop now if I wanted. I've done enough. I should find my friends down by the lake because we need to talk about Admete. But something's tugging at my fingers.

   I reach down to the basket of wools and rummage around. There it is, near the bottom, a golden yellow. Why is it calling me? What does it want to become? It's the color of the sun, but I don't want the sun against this deep, dark blue. Maybe a row of flowers.

   I wind the golden wool on a shuttle and start a first row, hints of gold for the pointed tips of petals, getting ready to work my way down. Row follows row and the rhythm lulls me. The shuttle wants to pull my hand. Maybe I'll just let it have its way.

   The golden shapes grow wider. Now they look like pointed ears, six of them. I follow them down to bold eyes. I've seen this before: three heads, one staring right at me and the others turning to guard each side. I've brought the three-headed dog from the chariot to life. There's an energy in him, a fierceness and alertness, that almost frightens me. I've never woven so well.

   It must be hours later when my mother comes humming back into the courtyard. I hope she stops to look again and admire my work. I keep weaving, pretending I don't see her so she won't think I care. She comes over. I'm already smiling for her praise.

   "Persephone!"

   Her voice sets off alarms in my head.

   "What on earth are you doing? Where did you see that?"

   I think fast. "It felt like it was weaving itself, like in a dream." That part is true, after all. I just won't say the rest, about the chariot with the design in gold and the meadow full of narcissus.

   "A dream? Are you sure that's all? Because if Cerberus is here in the vale—" She looks ready to smite someone.

   I'm scared and excited and my body is tingling, because I can tell this is huge. I have to know why.

   I make my eyes wide. I shake my head like an innocent little girl. "I've never seen a living creature like this, I swear." True again, as far as it goes. "Who is it? What does it mean?"

   "That brute roams the banks of the Styx."

   "The Styx?"

   "You know," she says crossly. "The river separating the earth from the underworld, the realm of Hades. I gather this beast is his special friend: Dark Hades, ruler of one-third of all creation, the insatiable lord of the dead."

   I gasp. It's him.

   I must be turning pale because she nods and says in a gentler voice, "I know. Death, decay—they make me shudder, too. I don't know why your dreams sent this image, but it doesn't belong here. Just pull out the threads and start over. No harm done."

   I barely hear her. I need to know more. "Have you been there?"

   "The underworld? Certainly not. It's closed to all the gods but Hermes, who guides mortal shades to its borders. Hermes—and his companion Death."

   "What's it like?"

   "Stop it," she says, as if she were talking to a toddler. "This morbid curiosity is unbecoming in a girl." She waves a hand toward the gate and the groves beyond. "This is your world: olives, lavender, poplars, figs. This is all you need to know. You're safe here. Undo this weaving now, and all will be well."

Undo it? My best work ever?

   "But Mother, the eyes, the teeth, aren't they good? Can't you see the power in them?"

   "You don't need that kind of power."

   She snatches the shuttle from my hand and starts to pull out the golden thread. Row by row. Soon the blazing eyes will be gone forever.

   "Don't!"

   I grab her hand and try to pull out the shuttle. She's got it by both hands now and she's pulling and I'm pulling. Her breath is short and her eyes are blasting fire, and here come those damn thunderclouds on the horizon and that stupid wind carrying the scent of rain, and I don't care. I won't let go.

   "Give it to me!" I shout.

   "Never!"

   With one hand I'm holding the yarn, trying to keep it in the weaving, and with the other I'm grabbing the shuttle, and then—snap!—the yarn breaks and my mother and I tumble back out of the shade into the glaring sun. We're both panting, staring at each other. She's won the shuttle with the golden thread. She looks at it with disgust, then throws it on the ground. She stalks into the house.

   I'll pay for this later. I know I will. The wind is so strong this time. But even in its threat, it carries the smell of the lake, and something else. Something sweeter. The scent of narcissus, blowing over from the meadow.

   I go back under the overhang into the cool shade. The loom is a wreck. The fabric is snagged, the remnants of the pattern pulled askew. And all the hanging threads, the ones that show you where you're going, are tangled.