"Stay here, Persephone," says my mother. "I have some work to do."

   As if I could go anywhere.

   She's all dressed up in her goddess clothes—the chiton dyed purple with rare sea snails; the golden girdle embossed with waving wheat; the emeralds dripping like green leaves from her neck, her arms, her golden hair. She looks about twenty feet tall.

   Off to rescue the world, probably. Mrs. Black-soilsprings-from-my-footsteps. Mrs. Even-the-grain-greets-mewith-lowered-head.

   Is that what she wants me to do, bow down and worship her? That's for mortals, not me.

   "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon," she says. "You'll be safe here in our beautiful vale."

   Our vale? It's hers. This place has nothing to do with me. It's all about her flowers, her waters, her rich earth.

   "While I'm gone, make sure you thread the loom. And watch your yarn choice this time." She reaches up and fingers the fabric near my shoulder. "Pale colors are so unattractive with your black hair."

   She's always giving me advice.

   It's not like it used to be when I was little. Back when she still smiled at me. When she didn't always pinch her mouth like she's trying to keep her temper trapped inside. I remember sitting by her knee, watching her nimble fingers turn fleece into long, silky threads. "Coax fine cloth from fresh wool," she used to say in her flowery way.

   But these days her advice isn't about teaching me things. It's about tamping me down, squashing me into the right shape, like a potter slaps clay around until it's his idea of a beautiful vase.

   I could take it for a day, or a week, or a month. But we're immortal.

   Here's the problem with immortality. Every day is exactly the same. I'm stuck forever with my mother telling me to comb my hair, put my clothes away, stand up straight. I always sleep in the same bed. I always walk by the same olive trees down to the same lake, its pebbles worn smooth by an eternity of lapping water.

   My mother bends to fix her sandal strap and catches sight of my legs. She comes up with a disapproving expression. "That dress is too revealing, dear. Go change."

   "But—"

   She doesn't wait to listen. Turning to leave, she calls over her shoulder, "And remember not to step on the thyme: it's blooming."

   As if I hadn't noticed.

   Why should she care if my dress is too revealing? She's created a world devoid of men. The only men I see are painted on vases. The only men I hear about are in the stories my friends tell.

I've spent my whole life here. I'm sick of it.