Later, I press my hand against a heavy wooden door and look inside the library, a room with ceiling-high bookcases and a fireplace. Burning lanterns float in the air. Invitingly cozy, but I wonder how advised it is to have so many floating flames around books and scrolls.

Otherwise, the library is not especially unusual with its burnished seating areas and amber glow; the library at home, albeit wider and one of the few rooms with no windows or open arches, looks about the same. Melinoë reads on a red velvet sofa. Despite the lanterns around us, her spot looks dim, but it doesn't seem to affect her. She rolls a reed-pen between her fingers, ink on them.

I should leave her alone, especially when this means I can explore, so long as I'm quiet.

On the first floor, most of the unlocked rooms are empty, except for a lingering specter or two, and they ignore me. Only two hold something: one has an empty bird cage and rusted garden supplies, and another has a pungent-smelling room with shelves upon shelves of herb jars.

None are labeled, which makes sense; a daughter of Persephone and granddaughter of Demeter can feel and know. A touch of a petal, like the touch of skin.

I go to the window. Melinoë drifts to the edge of the grounds, a parade of excited underhounds following. The pale sun hits the alligators' backs, so they look like rows of shiny rocks, Hedone decided now was the time.

No point in lingering and wasting time. Never thought I'd say that. After all, lounging around is common for immortals, and quite enjoyable. Nothing but time.

But things can change. Death isn't the worst fate. One can at least hope it'll keep them away from bruising hands.

Straightening my shoulders and taking a deep, quiet breath, I tread upstairs. And though I know Melinoë isn't inside, I keep my steps as light as possible, hem crumpled in my fists. I stand at the top of the stairs, between the halls that lead toward the east and west wings.

If I can face Zeus, I can face her. And anything she throws at me. I can face monsters. even with no sword or shield.

I shouldn't think such things. Zeus isn’t a monster. He’s the king. Jewels, affection, the world with its shimmering oceans and rolling skies. He's given me so much, and I'm grateful.

The west wing. I shouldn't do it, but by Olympus and the Underworld, hedonism may not involve pain, but it does include taking some risks with the hope of an award.

And, really, I can't see what the goddess of ghosts would have that's more frightening than the ghosts. What could be the worst thing? A drooling hydra-dog, like a serpent and Cerberus spliced together.

Or, perhaps, just the thing to affirm Zeus' suspicions.

Without another glance over my shoulder, I race to the west wing. This is the exact opposite of what I should do.

My pace quickens.

What strikes me as I go is that the west wing looks almost exactly like the east. Not in disrepair, at least, not in a terrible state. Not as well-lit, but I have no trouble navigating. Instead of the red and gold in the residential hall, the wallpaper is sapphire-blue with white flowers dappling the ocean of color.

I keep my steps light as I grip the brass knob of one door and slowly twist it. Unlocked. When I look inside, I find nothing except dust alight in the window.

Odd how the hallway in the east has an even number of doors on each side, but there's a missing space on the left end of this wing.

I try another door, the last one to the right. I step into a dusty bedroom with a vanity and massive wardrobe. Nothing off about the room. Nothing distinct. It smells of dampness and must.

Curious, I inspect the vanity, opening the drawers and finding nothing but a hairbrush and kohl crumbled and smeared on the bottom. I close it and stand before the oak wardrobe.

Opening it, I'm disappointed when it's empty. But in the dark, something looks off with the interior. It's large for me to crawl into it, and so I go in, my knees on the cool wood. I reach out, and the surface against my fingers wavers. A false back. Carefully and quietly, I remove it, setting it on the floor behind me. I crawl farther into the darkness and feel—silk, velvet. Clothes?

I'm in another wardrobe, another room, with some light leaking between the doors. And a sweet fragrance, and a—

I freeze. Voices. Two.