Like that, the spell breaks. The underhounds no longer glare at me. As they look behind them, they whine and. And. And bounce. Bounce? Is that normal for dogs? Their slobbering jowls sway as they wag their tails. Yes, I've read that dogs do that. I didn't know dogs from the Underworld did, though.

Hesitantly, I stand as fog drifts around me. My backside is wet with mud, wonderful. And even when the peril seems to be passed, the heavy weight in my chest stays.

A blue lantern hangs into the air. And all at once, a figure stands there.

Her saffron attire—not exactly what I thought she'd wear—contrasts brazenly with the grim darkness and drooping trees. Her stola is with a yellow cloak hanging off one shoulder, like draped sunlight. Where I'm small and curvy, she's tall and lithe. I have to look up to meet her eyes.

Melinoë’s eyes. No doubt. The center of my chest tightens, and my pulse quickens in my throat. No whites. Only a pure, inky black, dark as her long curls.

But what's most distinct is her face, her arms. Half her body, to my left, is a brittle bone-white, and the other side is obsidian-black. Truly a goddess of the heavens and the grave. On her hands, crawling up her sleeves, are faintly glowing blue sigils, geometric shapes. Some I recognize as alchemical, but most I don't recognize. Mother spoke tersely of similar marks when she met Hecate in the Underworld; Mother doesn't care for Underworld deities, especially Persephone.

I give a small wave. "Hello. Very nice canines you have here. They're quite . . ." I watch one of them sit at her side and whine for attention, red eyes large and pleading. "Their eyes are very big."

Melinoë lowers the lantern to her side. “Why are you here?” Ah, direct. Not going straight to pity. But if Orpheus could tell me anything, it's that, even if they still have the subtler cruelties of the gods, the chthonic gods can be stirred to tears.

I clasp my hands together and look down at the gnarled tree roots. “My name is Hedone, daughter of Psyche and Eros. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“That doesn’t sound like an explanation, unless I’m missing something.” A rather rude welcome. So domineering, and I'm not even blindfolded. She cocks her head. “I suppose you know who I am, as you are here, daughter of Psyche. Unless you are truly lost.”

“Yes, you’re—”

Flatly, she interrupts, “You’re far from home.” Does she want an explanation or not?

I close my mouth and straighten my back. “I came to visit you, to ask to stay at your abode.”

“I don’t allow visitors.” Melinoë doesn't so much as blink, and I check to see if she has eyelids. She does, lashes that glow silver in the pulsing lantern light as she lifts it to inspect me. Her scrutiny reminds me of many gods, how they've taken me in. Judged my worthiness with criteria I can't name.

I lick my lips. “I . . .”

Again, she lowers the lantern. “You haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“I told you.” I keep my voice light. “A visit. Which it appears you don’t allow.”

“I know you want to visit, but I don't know why. I can’t see why you’d want to be here.” Melinoë inspects my dirty bare feet and drifts her spidery fingers through the air. “We’ve never met, so forgive me if I don’t believe a stranger wants to see me. Visits are, you imagine, quite rare. I suppose I can believe a stranger would visit me before an acquaintance.”

I swallow, struggling to keep my composure. I can do this. My parents taught me well—Mother on how to survive, and Father on how to say what people want. How to know their strengths and weaknesses.

Now, Melinoë is imperceptible.

Maybe tears will work, so I let them come to my eyes as I cross my arms over herself and shiver. “Oh, well, it’s just . . .”

Something flashes in Melinoë’s eyes, but only for a second. She looks down, then up again.

“I do have room,” she says, reluctant. “But a love goddess will surely disrupt my studies and the, ah, aesthetic.” Love. My grandmother is love. I deal with hedonism. Food, wine, music, theater, decadent books and lurid tales. Nearly every god can understand such pleasures, from Dionysius to Apollo. Everyone, except someone who spends their immortal life with the dead, who aren’t much in the way of celebration.

Oh, grim one, you haven’t the slightest. I rub my damp cheek. “Is the aesthetic important to you?”

“Indubitably.”

Melinoë’s shoulders shift in such a subtle way I'm unsure if they’ve lifted, lowered or had not changed at all. Maybe it's the tense, humid air. A glamor.

“Come, then,” Melinoë says, turning away. I open my mouth, ready to simper, but the goddess of ghosts is already moving, a golden hood pillowed between her shoulders. Crocuses and pomegranates line her cloak in silver. She glides with her head high. I wonder how she doesn't smack it into a low branch.

Silent, I follow. I don't quite fear her—and yet that makes me worry more. As a goddess myself, familiar with the bloody history of love and seduction, the gods that act innocent and charming can be the most dangerous ones.

Melinoë is different, less approachable; but with all the croaks and bays and hisses in the night, I feel safe with a powerful witch-goddess near me.

I don’t know her. She could turn her magic against me. If she ever discovers my true reason for coming here . . .

She won’t. She can’t.

Six months.

The silence is maddening.

“You wear much less black than I thought you would,” I say, keeping my voice airy, letting my arms sway languidly at her sides. Less skulls, too.

“You wear much less red,” Melinoë replies, curt. Prickly. That's okay. I expect no less from a daughter of the king and queen of the Underworld. “When Aphrodite would visit the Underworld once a year, she'd be resplendent in scarlet.”

“Hm.” I change the subject when something unknown squelches under me. “I could use a bath.”

Melinoë whirls around to face me. “Why are you truly here? Do you expect me to believe you have no other motives?”

I work to check my heartbeat. “I’ve only given you the truth.” I drop my shoulders and edge her voice with weariness. “I had a home, a wonderful home, and now it’s lost to me. My parents and I had a . . . disagreement. Now, I only want rest.”

That is good. Melinoë's lost a home, too. Surely, even if she doesn't show it, she empathizes.

She takes a step closer, and I flinch, hands drawn to my chest. At that, the goddess of ghosts pauses, lips thin. Without another word, she advances toward the nearby yellow lights, and we continue on.

When we come to the tall, dark stone manor, the land surrounding it is full of flowers, fireflies, and floating lanterns. The building itself is smaller than I imagined, but its roof points imperiously to the sky, as if taunting Olympus. Along the roof and windows hang . . .

I thought they were bats at first. Or illuminated gargoyles. Pale skin like gossamer, gaping mouths, blue eyes. Gaunt, something from a macabre painting. They hang by their arms on the structure. Some have dark strings of hair covering their faces.

An underhound slides by me, and I startle. Melinoë follows my gaze, saying with a somber note, “Even this far from civilization, there are ghosts. Especially this far. They come to rest.”

Hissing and low bellows erupt across the land, but it isn't the dead in this dark, dreadful place, but the living. Alligators outline the perimeter, lounging under a walnut tree and—a garden? I thought not much can grow in a swamp.

She is the daughter of Persephone.

When we come to the front, it's scarlet as wild mulberries with a raised outline like thorns, or a portcullis. The door knocker is a snarling wolf with a thick ring hanging from its teeth. Melinoë twists the brass knob, and I take great care, coming up the obsidian steps, not to step on her hem.

We enter the manor with its pointed roof and arrow-like windows, and inside it is only a little less dim. And whereas spring makes the swamp humid and sticky, the interior is chilly. The primary colors are dark gold with sparse auburn. And gray, an abundance of gray floral wallpaper. Even the walls are ghostly.

The mouth of a stairway leers at us, its teeth long and foreboding, leading into more darkness.

Early spring, and yet I shiver. Odd to think a place so old and mystical can still exist; the gods cling to their ways, far above the horse drawn carriages and factories billowing blue smoke. The rank odor of mildew drifts through the air, mingling with the encroaching swamp. I suppose a goddess in the Underworld has smelled far worse.

I smell something like sulfur and roses, with an added, tangy-sweet aroma. Harsh as smoke, but oddly arousing. Close.

Melinoë, who regards me plainly.

Good, I may convince myself to fall in love with some part of her.

Guilt gnaws at me; everyone deserves some form of love and pleasure. It must be forlorn, always surrounded by the dead. I pity them, too.

I frown when I peer upon the deep gold, hard floor. “Oh dear, no rug. I’ll dirty up your floors.”

Melinoë looks at the gilded chandelier above us, a plank of wood sticking out of its circular frame. Closes her eyes.

Behind me, my muddy footsteps disappear, one by one. Melinoë drifts along, as if her feet don't touch the floor. With her long stola, I can't tell either way. I haven't even seen if she's wearing shoes.

As we ascend the stairs, a red velvet rug covering the steps like a hydra’s tongue, I worry I'll plummet to the cellar because of how loudly the wood creaks beneath us.

At the top, there are no paintings. However, there are lighter outlines to suggest there’d once been. The damp air crackles.

For the suggestion of past decadence, the manor is austerely decorated, as if its owner has no need for sentiment. The display tables, with designs of flowers and trees, are absent any trinkets or baubles. The mirrors are cracked and misted over.

Melinoë gives a hm and walks to the right. The wallpaper is more ornate in this part of the mansion, gold with strings of red—like pearls or swollen seeds. The doors are a dull red with gold outlining.

Eventually, Melinoë stops near the end of the hall and opens the door. Debating on whether I'm about to become a ritual offering, I stall for a moment before following.

An oil lamp flickers on in the room, casting a gold light on the browns, reds, and darker golds. Melinoë’s thick mane of sable-and-silver hair falls over one shoulder, cascading in a way that strikes me like it didn't outside. My own hair has waves and curls, but hers looks as if it has to be treated with more delicate hands.

A strange electricity courses through my body as Melinoë meets my eyes. “Here is a room you can stay in." She sets the lantern down on a display table. "You may explore the premises as you wish. I only ask that you keep to the east wing and the main hall. Avoid the west wing.”

I nod. “Is it dangerous?”

Melinoë says, hands behind her back, “I suppose. Open floors. Half-finished, altogether unpleasant. Not what someone like you would be accustomed to.” Still, she doesn't blink.

“Someone like me?” I ask.

As if she can read me well. As if she's witnessed what I'm accustomed to. Her, a goddess who's spent her life in the Underworld. How presumptuous.

This Olympus-forsaken woman!

“Someone who has lived in a palace all her life,” she elaborates. Oh yes, much better. “I’m not much in the way of interior design, nor have I seen any reason to make this estate more presentable to any wandering souls. They take it as it is.”

It's hard to deny my privilege, but Melinoë doesn't know a thing about me. That's good. Makes hiding my intentions easier.

“Does the Underworld not have a palace?” I ask, voice empty of weight. Let her think me vapid. Let her have her prejudices.

Her lips thin in thought. “I suppose it does, though I hardly stayed in it, after a time.”

“Well. Thank you for your kindness.”

She says nothing, her footsteps almost silent as she leaves me alone. I see, once her hem floats for a second, that her feet are indeed bare. And they, along with her ethereal dress, are completely untouched by the swamp.