Out past the stables, where the land is rough and rocky, my fingers run along sturdy leaves. They're as pointy and determined as miniature swords. I stop to scratch my nose, and an astringent scent clears my head, so everything looks crisper.

   Rosemary.

   It's a small bush, a baby, with four woody shoots reaching straight up. I'll carry it back to the oak, the first transplant for my new garden.

   I pull a spade from my girdle. The ridiculous tool is gold, with chunky jewels protruding all over. It's hard to get anything practical at the palace unless you're very, very specific. Everyone assumes a queen wants only luxurious fabrics, the most exotic perfumes, the rarest unguents. Do they really expect me to walk around in the diamond-encrusted sandals they keep giving me, with huge earrings pulling down my earlobes and golden chains clanking all over my neck? So when I asked for a spade, I should have known better. Tonight I'll tell them to make me one from solid iron, unembellished. But for now this will have to do.

   The gold bends the second it encounters a stone, and when I grip harder, the faceted gems dig into my palm. But the soil is fairly loose, and between the feeble blade and some good old-fashioned scrabbling with my hands, I dig down around the roots. They're young and resilient, like the rest of the plant. Finally they're free, and I cradle the plant in one arm while I stick the so-called spade back in my girdle. Maybe they can melt the gold down and use it for something else.

   As I walk back toward the palace, warmth seems to flow out from the little bush, surrounding me in a kind of expanding lightness. It floats me along so I barely feel like I'm touching the ground.

   Now I see dust rising near the stables, and even from here I can make out a rider astride a rearing horse. The man's body has such strength and confidence, I know it must be Hades. Of course! It's the new stallion he was telling me about. He wouldn't trust a groom to break it in; he wants that horse to know his hands, his scent, his voice.

   I angle off toward the stables, eager to watch him at his work. I lean against the fence rail.

   The stallion is panicky, snorting and tossing its huge head, but Hades' hands are easy on the reins and his face is alive with concentration, reading every message the horse sends with its snorts and whinnies, the angle of its ears, the muscles tensing in its flanks.

   Suddenly, the horse leaps off the ground and takes to the air. I shake my head—it shouldn't be possible! This is a smooth-backed riding horse, not a winged horse for the chariot. When I get my breath back, I look at Hades' face. He's laughing in sheer pleasure.

   Then he catches sight of me and says something into the horse's ear. The great beast circles and lands, as tame as a house cat after its amazing feat. Hades jumps off, murmurs something low and soothing, then waves to a groom, who runs up and takes the reins.

   Hades strolls over and leans on the other side of the fence from me, all sweaty and exhilarated.

   "Isn't he a beauty?" he says. "And now you're here. I seem to be surrounded by beauty today."

   He runs a finger across my cheek, making me shiver with his energy. He's leaning in closer when he notices the gangly little plant trapped between us. He pauses, lifting one eyebrow in an inquiring way.

"What are you up to? Taking up cooking?"

   I'm still too befuddled by the feel of his hand to answer. So he goes on. "Ah. I see you've got the roots, too. Why?"

   "So I can plant it," I say, finding my voice. "I'm making a garden."

   Now the second eyebrow goes up to join the first one.

   "A garden? Where, near the palace?"

   "I need it there, Hades. We need it. The building is full of pillars and frescoes, but no one ever bothered about what's right outside the walls. Look at this!"

   He follows my gaze.

   "Just scraggly, dry grass and rambly weeds," I say. "Why? It isn't that plants won't grow here. This rosemary's healthy enough, and the riverbanks are crowded with bushes." I smile, teasing him now. "No, it's plain laziness on your part."

   He gets the strangest look, almost like a child staring at a plate of cakes, eager to reach out and grab one.

   "Where will you put it?" he asks.

   "Near that oak tree halfway down the hill, where it flattens out. There's an easy path from the palace forecourt, and I can use the little stream that runs nearby for a fountain. There are lots of young trees near the Lethe; I'll dig up a small one. Maybe I can even find berry bushes or some mossy rocks for the stream."

He's hardly listening. He reaches up to run his fingers

along one of the rosemary's spiky little swords.

   "A green garden near the palace. Perfect," he says. His voice is almost dreamy.

   Then he catches himself, shakes his head, and some kind of shutters come down over his eyes. When they come up again, he's all practical.

   "I'll call workers to prepare the soil for you. They can get started on that fountain."

   "I want to do it myself, Hades."

   He gives me that strange smile again. "So it will be all yours!"

   "So I can listen to what it wants to be."

   As soon as I get myself a decent spade.

As I walk up the hill, I can't stop thinking about that eager look on Hades' face. I suppose he just wants me to be happy here. After all, he wouldn't do any gardening himself. He practically ran back to his new horse, those broad hands itching for reins, not a trowel. And he didn't offer to come but to send workmen. Workmen? I want to prepare the soil with my own hands. And it would feel funny to do this with strangers.

   Now, if my friends were here, that would be different. Kallirhoe would show me where to place rocks for the stream, and Admete—Admete never did a purposeful day's work in her life, but she'd brighten everything with her laughter. Ianthe could tell me what each flower likes best, and Galaxaura would waft, calm and clear, among the bushes, cooling us down as we worked.

   Between us, we'd have water running and paths curving in no time. And a riot of leaves would spring up, dark green and yellow-green and gray-green. We'd search for golden crocuses and orange-red poppies and bring them back to brighten the foliage, like stars across the sky.

   I reach the oak and walk under its leafy branches, leaning against the trunk in heavy shade. A breeze rustles the leaves, sighing low and sad. Then the sigh is mine.

   Kallirhoe, Ianthe, Galaxaura—I gave you up to come here. And Admete, already gone. I miss you all. I miss your voices, the way you know me through and through.

   What did you think when I didn't come back?

   The wind shifts the leaves, deepening the darkness around me. Outside the circle of branches, the sun blinds the world into nothing but glare.

   They don't know where I am. I never told them.

   How did they learn I'd left the vale? Maybe it was my mother. I can almost see her striding down to the lake, her lips taut with anger, storm clouds billowing over the cliffs. I see her interrogating my friends, and when they try to say they don't know where I am, her face winches tighter—

   Enough! The oak's deep shade must be making me moody.

   I blink my way out from under the branches so the light can burnish my doubts away. I pull out the feeble spade and start digging a hole, pushing the dark down deeper, where I don't have to look at it.

   What am I worrying about? Everyone must know where I am by now. I'm sure someone saw me flying overhead in the chariot, and the gods gossip together all the time. Besides, my mother, care that I'm gone? Enough to be that angry? I don't think so. Oh, she felt obligated to instruct me and improve me, but I don't think she liked me very much.

   I swallow, trying to get rid of a bitter taste in my mouth. Then I plop the rosemary in its new home and scoop the soil back around its roots.