Imove away from the dark window and slide two brooches from my shoulders, weighing one in each hand.

   This one—the one in this hand is my bed, the same bed I've slept in forever. It's my trunk, my mirror with a handle shaped like Aphrodite, these covers I wove. It's Kallirhoe's gentle stream and Ianthe's perfume. It's the way the air sparkles when Galaxaura blows the mist away.

   And the other—the other hand feels light with not knowing. What is it like down there in the underworld? Dark, smoke-filled caverns, maybe, lit by flickering torches and filled with moaning, writhing human souls? He called them shades—I bet they don't even look human anymore. How does anyone rule over puffs of smoke? I should have asked. I seem to be good at not asking.

   I drop my closed palms to my sides and walk the six steps to the other wall, turn, and walk back, trying to imagine a crown on my head.

   But Hades is no phantom. He's solid and real. He's what matters, not all the rest. I close my fingers tighter around that brooch, and now both hands are weighted as I walk and turn, walk and turn.

   It's much later when my mother passes the door and sees me pacing. A line of concern wanders across her brow.

   "Is something the matter?" she asks.

   "The matter? Nothing's the matter."

   I try to wash all the feelings off my face and leave it as clear as the lake.

   "It's late, past your bedtime. Why are you still up? Something must be troubling you. Let me help."

   She has a hopeful expression, almost pitiful in its eagerness for me to let her in. She's really trying. I know she is.

   But if I tell her . . .

   His kiss sweeps over me again, so strong I have to struggle to stay on my feet. If I tell her, that's what I'm giving up: that kiss, those eyes burning into me. Not to mention any chance of ever living my own life.

   "Is it Admete, dear? Is that what's bothering you?"

   And then I know. I've made up my mind.

   "Your cheeks are flushed." She walks over and places her cool palm on my forehead. "You should spend tomorrow in bed, resting."

   She pulls back the coverlet and steps aside for me to lie down. She pulls the covers up to my chin. "Sleep is what you need."

   I let her kiss my brow. Then it hits me: this is it. I'll never see her again. I grab her hand and press it to my cheek.

   "Well!" she says, smiling. "Good night, Persephone."

   Softly, too softly for her to hear, I whisper, "Good-bye."

Across the field in morning sunlight, hugging the trees and vines, slipping into their shadows, staying far from the path that passes by Kallirhoe's stream. I hear laughter down by the lake, the splash of an oar, voices rising and falling like ripples. I hurry in the other direction. They mustn't see me, call to me, ask me where I'm going. Up ahead, where the olive and plum trees open into meadow, I see the glare of light reflecting off gold. The chariot. Black horses grazing, their glossy coats shining in the sun. And Hades, pacing.

   The narcissus have grown so thick now, blossoms crowd around his feet. Their scent pulls me from under the plums' dense leaves and I step from dappled light into full sun.

   The horses flick their ears. Hades lifts his head and pivots, alert.

   And then he's walking toward me, eyes fixed on me as if I

were prey. Unsmiling. All jaw, cheekbone, shoulder.

I'm frozen.

   He walks toward me, fine-spun cloth outlining his thighs, stroking golden brown skin, and a breeze is playing with my hair, brushing my arm—

   He walks toward me, easy, as if he owned me.

   The air around me is heating. Energy crowns him like a halo, emanates from his arm, his hand—

   Walks toward me.

   Don't stop! Nothing is safe. I don't want it to be. So what if I'm changing my life forever? Forever is this one instant, when he's almost here.

   He sees what's in my eyes. He reaches me and grabs me, pulls me close. His mouth on my mouth. His scent mingling with the flowers' intoxicating perfume. The strength of his arms.

   There is no way I could pull myself back from this eternity. But he does. Pulls back, looks me in the eyes, and says in a husky voice, "Tell me you're coming with me. Say you'll be my queen. Say it."

   It's easy. I'm drunk, drugged on narcissus and skin. No doubt. This isn't my home. His arm will be my home. His skin will touch me and that is all I need.

   I nod.

   "Say it out loud," he says. "Say you choose to come with me."

   "Yes," I say. "I choose to come."

Hades lifts me into the chariot as if I weighed no more than a lamb being carried to market. He leaps up beside me; the horses snort and paw the earth, tossing their heads. Then he snaps the reins and the horses start running like water breeching a dam, sudden, unstoppable. There's a jolt, and their mighty legs are galloping through air.

   We soar above plum trees and olive groves, above the lake, where a rowboat, unmoored, floats empty in the middle. The air rushing past me becomes a wind, blowing my hair and the folds of my chiton behind me like wings.

   Suddenly, a phalanx of pink stone rises in front of us, blocking out the world—the cliffs, trying to hold me in. But with one forceful stroke, the horses carry us right over my prison walls.

   For the first time, I see the world outside the vale: paths leading down to coves murmuring with waves, rich jumbles of fields, white-walled villages, tiny specks of sheep on green hillsides, and lakes glinting blue and green like precious gems.

   Everything shrinks smaller and smaller, until the trees are green dots, and then even the dots disappear and there's nothing below us but bold strokes of paint: green, brown, gold.

   Hades snaps the reins, urging the horses as fast as they'll go. The wind becomes an exhilarating gale, rocking the chariot side to side, and my knuckles turn white on the golden rail, holding on, just holding on. Hades' cloak snaps and cracks behind us with the sounds of raging fire.

   Then down, without slowing. Green rushes toward us, gives way to rocky, barren land, and then everything is white and we're plunging into clouds that seem to rise from the earth itself. No, not clouds, steam, billowing up with a sulfurous smell, and we're plummeting right into that shifting, swirling mass as if the ground is pulling open. We plunge through a cleft in the rock, and all I can do is hold on tighter as the chariot rocks and hot steam roils about us. That's all there is: steam, wind, the chariot careening from side to side; and a scream rips out—is it mine?—and even that sound disappears, sucked into the swirling, thick air, and I hold on and I hold on. There is nothing but holding on.