There's darkness all around me, an ocean of it. And I'm adrift in a raft of a bed.

   "Hades?" I whisper.

   Nothing. No answer.

   "Hades? Where are you?"

   I reach blindly across the bed, but no matter which way I grope, I find no reassuring arm, no broad shoulder to shake.

   I don't believe it! He's left me alone to the dark.

   To the dark—and what else? I shiver into fine-spun sheets and strain my ears, trying to hear something, anything. What sounds do shapeless wraiths make? Do they even speak once they leave their mortal bodies, or are they only wavering bits of mist? And where are those flickering torches I was counting on to give me light?

   When Hades talked about the darkness beneath the earth, I didn't think he meant this.

   "Hades? Anybody?"

   As if in answer to my call, a faint golden rectangle emerges from the darkness, floating like four lines sketched with a glowing ember. Like a door.

   I scoot to the side of the bed and swing my feet down until they meet cold, polished stone. My arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, I totter toward the glimmering outline. One careful step, two, three, four . . . and then my fingers touch wood.

   Shutters! The golden rectangle is a window frame!

   I fumble the latch open, and the room floods with glorious, blinding light. The sun, here in the underworld! That's the last thing I expected to find. I blink until I can make out sky and hills covered with tawny grass.

   No smoky caverns, no dripping stalactites—I sigh with relief. Maybe I can handle this after all.

   But the rest of the room reels with gaudy decorations: frescoed deer cavort on the walls, geometric mosaics dance underfoot, spirals and rosettes swirl across a distant ceiling like the leaves of some towering tree. I could fit ten of my bedrooms in here. I could fit my entire courtyard.

   I wrap myself in a sheet, shuffle over, and open two more windows. Below me stretches a hill speckled with rocks and bushes. Halfway down, a broad oak beckons. And farther still, there's a curving strip of green where trees—tiny from this distance—trail leafy fingers in a river. People are swimming. Well, not people; shades, I suppose. But even from this distance they look distinctly human, not wraithlike at all.

   The scrub grass calls to me. We never had brown grass in the vale. I need to see how it feels under my feet. And those squat, scraggly bushes—I want to rub their leaves, lift my fingers, and breathe in their scent.

   But where's Hades? Last night it felt like he'd never leave my side again. And now . . .

   Well, if he can go off alone, I can, too. I straighten my shoulders, firming up my courage. I'm going to explore my new home. All I need is my clothes.

   I look across the polished floor, but it's bare. A row of wooden chests lines the wall across from the windows. Maybe Hades tossed my chiton in there.

   I throw open the first trunk. Mountains of jewels glare out at me: diamonds, lapis, rubies, amber, little white pearls and black pearls the size of olives, and a huge golden crown slashed with rubies. A necklace dangles emeralds as fat as green plums. I run my fingers through the glittering treasure.

   The second trunk is a tangle of shoes, with spun-silver laces, and diamonds encrusted like barnacles, and threeheaded dogs worked in golden filigree. I slip the last pair on under my sheet. They fit perfectly, as if they were made for me. But I catch myself. If I spend all morning getting lost in this stuff, I'll never feel the grass under my feet. I toss the shoes back and drop the lid.

   Finally, in the third trunk, I find chitons—dozens and dozens of them. A tumble of color grows at my feet as I pull them out, searching for mine: saffron, persimmon, gold, a deeper purple than my mother's finest. And the decorations, the patterns! Silver seashells scattered on ocean blue, blackwinged horses flying over grass-green linen. Palace gowns, far too grand for a barefoot stroll.

   One yellow dress looks plainer than the rest. I slip it on. Once I belt the waist, the hem skims the tops of my feet, just the way I like it.

   Then I see the brooches are marked with the letter P. So is the girdle.

   I grab some necklaces from the jewelry trunk and dump them on the bed. There it is on the clasps: P. And woven into the hem of the grass-green chiton. And the blazing ruby crown—yes, here it is.

   Of course. They're mine.

   "Queen Persephone," I say out loud, and my voice echoes in the vast room.

   The crown is too heavy in my hands; I fling it on the growing pile with a shiver.

   Wait a minute. What am I nervous about? Any of my friends would love to have these clothes. And when it comes time to wear them, Hades will help me learn my way around. What was it he said? "Ruling is easy. I'll teach you."

   I take a deep breath. Right now I'm going to discover my new home and its grasses, its leaves, its trees. I'll find my way down to that river and go for a swim. Then I'll come back, find Hades, and ask how he could leave me to wake up alone.

The halls twist and tangle like octopus arms, and there must be thousands of rooms: reception rooms with gilded couches, and storage rooms stacked with trunks and amphorae of wine or oil, and warrens of workrooms. I pass the same red marble bathtub four times.

   Then I glance down a hall. Finally! There's Hades, standing with his hand on the three-headed dog's back. I run up, but he stands still and unmoving— Damn. It's only a statue, frozen forever in painted marble.

   But the statue is next to a stair, and at the bottom of the stair is a door, and the door leads me out into bright morning sunlight.

And there are people everywhere.

   Shades, I remind myself, shades. But they look as solid as I do, and their voices ring in the air, and I can hear their feet pattering across the stone forecourt. You couldn't tell they were different from me just by looking.

   Then I see two of them heading right toward me: a gray-haired man and an elegant younger woman, their eyes respectfully lowered, their steps slow and thoughtful. They know who—what—I am!

   My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. The shades are already worshiping me! I don't know how to do this! I don't know how to be a queen yet; nobody's told me anything! And I didn't even dress up like I probably should have, not a single piece of jewelry. I bet I was supposed to wear a crown. Soon they'll be close enough to kneel before me on the hard stones. What do I do? My head is scrambling. I try to picture my mother. She'd never bow—maybe tilt her head in acknowledgement? That's it. I'll tilt my head. And my voice will fail me if I try to speak, I know it will—I'll have to use my hands to bid them rise. Oh, why didn't I wait for Hades to come?

   I straighten the folds of my chiton, pull my shoulders down, and prepare to incline my head.

   The man nods at me. "Good day," he says, and the woman smiles as they pass right by. Right by, on their way to a bench a few steps behind me. They sit and start talking to each other.

   I deflate like the throat of a bullfrog all done croaking.

   All that panic for nothing! I look down at my bare feet, my plain chiton, my ringless hands. They must think I'm one of them. Being a queen seems to be all in the clothes.

   I walk near a group of young women with their arms around each other's waists. Carefully covering the P on my brooch, I smile and say hello. They grin back and one beckons. I wave my hand but keep walking.

   It's true, then. No one knows who I am!

   Relief floods through me. I don't have to be a queen right away. If I dress like this, I can learn bit by bit, and in between I can be as normal as any mortal.