I'm finally getting used to the throne room. I have to admit it's taken a while. After my "grand entrance," I didn't want to go back at all. Just thinking about it made me feel like crabs were scuttling across my skin. But each time is easier than the one before, and now the path to the throne doesn't even make my heart beat faster.

   Today I'm wearing my orange and saffron chiton and the golden earrings curved like Charon's boat, a small figure with a sailor's cap perched in the prow. And the new sandals I requested. Their tops are adorned with plenty of diamonds so when I put my feet on the royal footstool, they flash in proper regal splendor, but their soles are plain old leather.

   Hermes, wings still on his ankles, leans against a pillar as the mortal shades bow low. It's a huge crowd today.

   We bid them rise and then say words of welcome. We point out the guides who will show them around. I describe the Rivers of Forgetting and Fire, and Hades warns them that Cerberus guards the Styx. He closes with the now familiar words, "There is no going back. Cerberus will not let you pass. This is your home now."

   Usually, the shades listen reverently, awed by our presence and overwhelmed by the newness of it all. But today the stillness is broken by a stage whisper.

   "Who'd want to go back to that mess?"

   Every head turns. There, in the middle of the great hall, stands a sturdy, scruffy farmer with a well-lined face. Next to him, a scrawny woman grabs his arm as if to pull him back from notice.

   But if he's willing to talk, I'm eager to listen. Each day, as the crowds before me grow larger, Earth and the drought weigh heavier on my mind. I want to know what brought these shades here and what they had to leave behind.

   I glance at Hades; he's in an excellent mood today. He won't mind my asking just this once. In what I hope is a reassuring voice, I ask the farmer to step forward and describe what's happening on Earth.

   He hesitates, but the woman beside him hisses, "Now you got yourself into it, you might as well speak up!"

   The farmer takes a few steps and spreads his feet wide, as if planting himself to resist a powerful wind. "It hasn't rained in months," he says. "It stopped raining right when the new shoots were rising. They withered to nothing. I touched them and they crumbled like flakes of ash. We used what water we had—"

   "But that water ran away faster than a boy skipping out on chores," his wife butts in, obviously accustomed to making their sentences a joint endeavor. "Even the deep-down water dried up. The cows ate the grass down to dirt and then kicked the dirt away. Clouds of dust everywhere, and so many cracks in the ground, you couldn't walk without tripping."

   "How long did you say it was since the last rain?" I ask.

   "Months," says the farmer.

   "And when did you last sacrifice to Demeter?"

   Hades shifts uncomfortably on the throne beside me.

   "Last week," says the farmer, "but it wasn't much of a sacrifice. There's not enough left to offer up."

   "We may be poor, but we're not stupid!" the woman exclaims. "Of course we sacrificed to Demeter, but it's like she's gone deaf or something. We prayed, we begged, we pleaded. Nothing."

   "Even sacrificed the last of the cows a while ago," says the farmer. "We usually offer the goddess grain and wine, but we thought something special would get her attention, maybe tell her how much we were hurting. Nothing changed, except no more trickles of milk."

   His wife sighs and shakes her head. "It's simple. No rain means no food. It means hearing hungry children cry. No, we're happy enough to be here. Someone said there's going to be a banquet."

   She whispers in the farmer's ear. He bows clumsily. I nod to the guides, and they start gathering people into groups.

   I turn to Hades and ask softly, "How much worse can it get up there?"

   He shrugs, not answering.

   I know, I know. He doesn't want to talk about Earth. But the farmer put a face on the suffering, and I need some help making sense of this. "What is my mother thinking?" I persist. "These people don't look like they've even been disrespectful, let alone sinful."

   "It's not so bad that we're busy, you know," Hades says. "Things are booming around here! But let's talk about it later. They're heading off to the banquet."

   Perhaps he's right. This is a very public place. I'll wait—as long as we really do talk later.

   I pull my thoughts back to the room before me. "I've always thought this part of the welcoming is nice," I whisper, "having a banquet when shades arrive."

   "Nice doesn't have much to do with it. The food binds them to the underworld."

   He reaches over and starts running his fingers up and down my bare arm. His voice turns playful. "Perhaps you'd like to join them? I know you don't need to eat, except for pleasure." The fingers draw flirtatious circles. "You are immortal, after all. Still, I haven't noticed you nibbling anything down here. A nice hunk of bread, perhaps, and some sweet fig jam, to keep you by my side forever?"

   I shake my head at him and smile. "Not right now. Besides, you don't need any tricks to keep me here. I love you. I've chosen my life."

   Now his fingers wander over to my thigh.

   "No tricks at all?" he murmurs in that low, intimate voice.

   I feel myself warming from head to toe.

   "Still blushing, my bride?"

   And I wish we weren't in the throne room and that night's welcoming curtains were drawing closed around us.

   But no such luck. Hermes detaches himself from his pillar and comes striding over, totally oblivious to the heat hovering around the throne.

   "Another day, another crowd," he says. "I'm so busy, it's taking all the fun out of my work. I could use a drink. Where are you hiding the nectar?"

   Hades signals to a servant. I shake myself; the spell is broken.

   "Hermes, you drink so much, we're going to need another storeroom just for you!" I laugh. Then something occurs to me. "Come to think of it, you ate all those grapes in my garden, too. And yet you cross the Styx all the time. Doesn't food bind you to the underworld?"

   "I'm the exception," he says with a grin. "Travel is in my job description. I go everywhere."

   It seems like rules are riddled with exceptions.

   "Then you must see everything," I go on. There aren't any shades around now. Hades won't mind one more quick question about Earth, will he? "Tell me, how bad are things getting up there?"

   "Bad. I've never seen it like this. It's so dry, even the gods have started griping to Zeus. Like the mortal said, there aren't enough animals left to sacrifice. Ah, what I'd give for some nice fatty smoke wafting up from the sacrificial flames!"

   He pulls off his hat and runs his fingers through his golden curls. "And Zeus—I've never seen him so out of sorts. He's ordering me around more than ever, trying to prove he's still boss of something. 'Hermes, go here! Hermes, one more thing!' No, I try to stay out of his way as much as I can. He's as brittle as the twigs that used to be fruit trees."

   "This can't keep up," I say, trying to convince myself. "It's bound to rain soon, don't you think?"

   No one answers.

   Hades puts a hand on our guest's shoulder, steering him

to the door, and raises an eyebrow to ask if I'll join them. I shake my head.

   Once they're gone, I sit on the steps leading down from the throne. The room is empty.

"Let's talk about it later," he said.

   Every time I mention Earth, Hades changes the subject. What were his words? "I don't even want your thoughts up there." As if thinking about Earth will make me so mopey, I can't do my job properly here. But he's wrong. It's not knowing that's distracting me. I should tell him that.

   I need to set my thoughts straight. That way, next time we're alone, I won't get confused and lose track of the conversation.

   I try to separate the voices mumbling in the back of my head. Birds devouring seed grain . . . crops withering to dust . . . mortals sacrificing to my mother, her ears as deaf as stone . . .

   How can people atone for their sins if she won't listen?

   The odd thing is, she seemed so happy with mortals after the Thesmophoria. She was beaming about their grateful worship, their bounteous offerings, that smirking pig. And then I came here and everything started to change.

   Then I came here. . . .

   Maybe this isn't about mortals at all.

   The room starts to grow chilly. I hug my arms across my chest.

   It's a coincidence! My mother wouldn't harm her precious crops on my behalf. Her priorities have always been clear. She used to smile when she stood in fields of waving grain. When she stood next to me, she was usually frowning.

   I didn't tell her I was leaving.

   Look, she's obviously angry about something, but it can't be because of me. And there's not much I can do from down here, anyway. Earth is Zeus's realm. He'll step in if things get bad enough.

   How bad is bad enough?

   I stand back up. I'm not doing such a good job sorting things out. And the more I think about it, the less I'm sure I want to. Or that I need to. Hades doesn't seem concerned, after all. And it's bound to rain soon.

   I head up to my room to change, hoping the voices won't follow me there.