“Greetings and well wishes, Mother of the Harvest,” he says, facing her.

“And to you,” Demeter hesitates before adding, “Son of Night and Shadow.”

Charon accepts her greeting with a quick bow. Her words seem to also affect Hiraeth, whose placid expression relaxes into a smile, one that only grows wider when Charon bows low before her.

“Charon.”

“Your Majesty,” he says, returning her warmth with a smile of his own.

“You’ve made a good impression, I think.”

“Have I, on you?”

“On my grandmother. When was the last time someone greeted you that formally?”

“Well…”

“It’s only polite to respond in kind,” Demeter adds gently.

“You’ve been trading insults with Father for days now. That’s hardly polite.”

“But still a response in kind. In any case, Charon and your mother reminded me how important it is to honor the offerings we receive, especially when they are sent in the form of gifts.”

“I’m flattered, Demeter,” Charon says. “But I only agreed to deliver these gifts because I thought there might be something here for Hiraeth to enjoy.”

“Oh? Like what?” Hiraeth asks.

“I’ll leave that to your discretion.” Charon raises the basket and Hiraeth’s aide comes forward to collect it. She places it gently on the table between Demeter and Hiraeth before returning to her position at Hiraeth’s elbow.

“Why don’t you choose something first?” She asks.

“It’s kind of you to offer, dear.” Demeter’s lips pull taut as she smiles for her granddaughter. “But I’m afraid I have to decline.”

“You ‘have to’ decline? Even though it’s a gift?” Hiraeth’s disappointment registers only for a moment before it’s quickly replaced with her placid expression from before.

“She absolutely does,” Hades’ sonorous voice chimes in. “As much as I like the idea of Demeter being stuck here while your mother and I are away, I’d hate for her to be in my welcoming party.”

“In that case,” Hiraeth says, sitting upright again. “Would you choose something for me?”

“Of course, dear.” Demeter sets herself to the task. She considers each piece of produce and bottle of wine carefully, while Hiraeth waits patiently, her eyes glowing with curiosity as each new item leaves the basket. Charon observes for a moment, noting the shift in their attention, and seizes the chance to slip away.

Unfortunately, his plans are ruined as soon as they form. He recognizes, too late, a member of the Underworld Council of Elders staring him down. Ëstis is the picture of stern elegance with her silky salt and pepper hair pulled into an elegantly woven bun and complemented by a wreath of precious silver, each strand thin as thread. Black thread highlights the traditional key pattern on the stark white sleeves of her robes, matching the delicate obsidian nightingale on her breast—her only piece of jewelry. She navigates the crowd with the grace of a former queen to quickly close the distance between them.

“Charon, it’s such a pleasure to see you here,” she says with an even tone.

“The pleasure is all mine, Elder. I hope you’ve been enjoying the festivities.”

“Thanks to Dionysus’ efforts, I’ve had my fill of it all.” Her lips pull taut as she speaks and she pulls her shawl close to her body. “In any case, it’s been so hard to meet with you lately. I can only imagine how busy you’ve been.”

“It comes with the territory. The dead won’t cross the Styx on their own.”

“Of course. It’s good that you have Phlegyas. I did see him earlier though, didn’t I?” She scans the room languidly, hardly caring whether she finds the man in question. Charon looks too, but not for his friend.

“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Neither of us could afford to be here if it wasn’t for our team of ferriers.”

“Yes, your team,” she lingers on the word as her eyes turn his way again. “I can’t remember the last time I heard an update about their progress. They have been making progress, haven’t they?”

“They have.”

“When we last spoke you mentioned there were incidents of ferriers falling into the Styx along with their passengers.”

“Thankfully, no. Phlegyas and I have both taken measures to see that no one else suffers that fate.”

“But what about those who already have?”

“It’s a work in progress…”

“How long should we be expected to wait? How long should those lost souls wait until they can be restored?”

“With all due respect, Elder, what we are trying to do challenges the laws at the foundation of the Underworld. No soul cast into the Styx has ever emerged whole.”

“I’m well aware of that, Charon,” Ëstis snaps, shortening her words. Her chin tips up a fraction and she folds her hands tightly around herself. “But there have also been exceptions, and if there is one, there can be others. We must work together on this.”

Their exchange attracts curious eyes and ears, and Ëstis’ passionate speech only draws more attention. The most curious around them brazenly lean in, eager to catch the next whisper of information or morsel of gossip they can distort.

“While I agree with you, this is a topic that requires greater discussion, but this is neither the place nor time for it. I’ll leave you to enjoy the banquet.” He smiles coldly, moving on before Ëstis can respond. Charon whips the hood of his cloak up again, hiding most of his features as he weaves through the crowd, continuing this time until he gets to a set of doors leading to the balcony.