Melita runs over and wraps me in a gigantic hug, twirling me around in her strong arms until my feet fly off the ground.

   "Did you hear?" Her eyes glow like the sun. "Did you hear? It's raining on Earth!"

   "Waterfalling! Practically cascading!"

   "You and your fancy words. Plain old rain is good enough for me."

   It seems the drought has lifted with a vengeance. Earth's skies are black with thunderclouds. Rain is pounding down so ferociously, the soil is like a sated sponge struggling to soak it all up. It's almost as if Zeus heard my thoughts yesterday, because it's obvious he talked to my mother and made her see reason.

   Last night I was frantic beyond words, but now I'm actually relieved Hades was out so late. I don't need to bother him after all. There's no need to make a scene. Everything's going to be fine.

   Melita raises her hands to the sky, beaming in gratitude. "Do you know what this means?" she says. "Green grass for the goats to eat, and plenty of vegetables to stock the larder, and people with enough money to buy cheese. And when my husband comes home, he'll find Philomena fat and happy!"

   I feel as light as Melita looks. There will be enough water for every child and animal and stalk of grass. Seeds will burst open, sending out greedy roots. Calves will nuzzle their mothers' sides. Tables will groan under platters of meat and olives and eggs and figs and bread. Now no one will have to suffer in my name.

   "Let's celebrate," I say. "This garden will welcome back her sisters on Earth. Are there berries yet? We'll have our own feast."

   "It's high time you ate something from the garden!" says Melita. "But the grapes are all gone, and the plums are still hard and green. No, this is the only thing that looks ripe enough."

   She stops in front of the pomegranate bush. The solitary fruit dangles like a big red ball, arcing its branch low. The spiky calyx stretches toward the earth, a chariot hanging from a glowing harvest moon.

   But when I walk closer, the round ball becomes lumpy. Solid red paint separates into crimson dots stippled on a yellow base.

   How could I have thought, even for a second, that it was all even and perfect and simple? Nothing ever is. Like my life, for instance. I remember when Melita said she saw the queen—saw me—and all she noticed was a purple gown. That's what mortals can make out, from far away, a perfect being clad in priceless garments. But approach the throne and you can hear my breath. Yes, I'm actually breathing. Come close enough to look in my heart: what a rough, uneven place that is these days.

   I reach up to test the pomegranate's heft, but the spiky calyx jabs into my palm. I spread my fingers wide so the little crown slips through, and then I lift carefully. That's as close to cradling as it will let me get.

   My fingers tighten around its curves. I want to pluck the fruit and see what's under that tough hide, but something tells me it has to guard its secrets until they're sweet enough to emerge.

   "I bet it's supposed to be heavier," I say, letting go. "Maybe it will fall off by itself when it's ready."

   "Then let's pick some flowers and weave them into crowns for our hair," says Melita.

   Bright orange crocuses, delicate white daisies—we slip stem into slotted stem as the fountain sings of the glories, the wonders, of rain.