I bite down on the inside of my cheek and keep kneeling, though I lean to look into the room. What I can see through a thin sliver, anyhow. A bedroom, a vast one.

There are two figures sitting on the side of the bed. Men. Young looking, maybe immortal, maybe mortal, but through my investigative skills, I determine they're men, nonetheless.

They are both, from what I can tell from their long, striped nightclothes, well-muscled but lithe. One, with a pale head, is almost like Melinoë in stature, thinner.

And, quite frankly, they're beautiful. One is dark-haired with gray eyes, his face angled, shadows under his eyes. The other is blond with brown eyes, his skin a slight shade darker than his companion. A long scar trails over his collarbone. The room, unlike previous ones I've seen, has shades of green where red would typically be.

“Do you remember what a peach tastes like?” the blond asks, voice airy. “When I was with Mother, she always had apples, and I couldn’t stand the texture. At least Persie always had pomegranates.” Persie. Pomegranates. Persephone?

The other replies, “I’m sure she could grow a tree. A peach tree.”

A whisper: “I know, but after all she’s done, to ask that . . .”

With a sardonic slant of his mouth, the dark-haired man says, “It’s not as if you’re asking for a sacrifice on the altar.”

An altar? Of course there is. Or it's just an expression; when it comes to the gods, one can never know what's jest.

“Yes.” Standing, the blond man paces from one side of the room to the wardrobe. Heart in my throat, I scurry closer to the back, but I don't have much space to adjust.

A sigh from the bed. “There you go again.”

The blond man swivels to face his companion. “How can you sit in the same spot all day?” Agitation.

The dark-haired man rolls his shoulders. They're much broader than his companion’s, and a narrow scar diagonally slashes across his thick right brow. “We must. Or . . .”

It doesn't make any sense. I'm not sure who these men are, why they're here, why I haven't seen them. Why Melinoë forbade me from being here. Are these men guests or prisoners?

Despite the frustration in their voices, they don't seem afraid.

Raking a hand through his curls, the blond man says, “Yes, I know, I know, but my legs are cramping. I love you, but to be here all day isn’t how I want to live out my days.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be.”

His profile to me, the blond man crosses his arms. “How do you know? How do you know if we can . . .”

The dark-haired man says, “Adonis . . .”

A lump forms in my throat, and it takes all my strength to remain still.

Adonis, I never knew him personally. The god of beauty taken in by Aphrodite.

And Aphrodite . . .

When I was with Mother, he’d said.

Eventually, he died, and he had been forgotten except for poetry and allusions to beauty.

He's supposed to be dead.

Gods cannot truly die, but they can be sent to the Underworld. Or made into flowers, such as Adonis' blood becoming anemones, his tears red roses. I struggle to think of a connection to the Underworld. To my host. He'd been a lover of Persephone’s, allegedly the only lover she took outside her marriage, though the story went that he preferred his adoptive mother/lover over her.

The blond man, Adonis, shakes his head and sits by his companion. His eyes are bright.

“Let’s not fight,” Adonis coos, and they kiss lightly. His companion pulls him closer, and their foreheads brush against each other.

Feeling intrusive, I feel my way through the darkness behind me, working to find my way back. As the wood under me creaks.

The dark-haired man says, “What was . . .”

I don't think as I heave herself out of the wardrobe, dash through the empty bedroom and swiftly leave it, closing the door behind me.

Barking outside. I run in a flurry until I'm at the main staircase.

Adonis and his partner. Here. Guests? Prisoners? I can't tell. My throat tightens.

No one is here with me or comes after me. The barking dies down. I look down but don't see my host.

Gloomy, enshadowed Melinoë.

I'm not a prisoner.

Yet.