dark.
To the dark—and what else? I shiver into fine-spun sheets and strain my ears, trying to hear something, anything. What sounds do shapeless wraiths make? Do they even speak once they leave their mortal bodies, or are they only wavering bits of mist? And where are those flickering torches I was counting on to give me light?
When Hades talked about the darkness beneath the earth, I didn't think he meant this .
"Hades? Anybody?"
As if in answer to my call, a faint golden rectangle emerges from the darkness, floating like four lines sketched with a glowing ember. Like a door.
I scoot to the side of the bed and swing my feet down until they meet cold, polished stone. My arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, I totter toward the glimmering outline. One careful step, two, three, four . . . and then my fingers touch wood.
Shutters! The golden rectangle is a window frame!
I fumble the latch open, and the room floods with glorious, blinding light. The sun, here in the underworld! That's the last thing I expected to find. I blink until I can make out sky and hills covered with tawny grass.
No smoky caverns, no dripping stalactites—I sigh with relief. Maybe I can handle this after all.
Now I can see the room. The bed looks like it's carved from the trunk of a single, gigantic tree. Sinuous roots, polished to a rich red-brown, disappear into the floor, as if slurping up nourishment from the land below. It's gorgeous.
But the rest of the room reels with gaudy decorations: frescoed deer cavort on the walls, geometric mosaics dance underfoot, spirals and rosettes swirl across a distant ceiling like the leaves of some towering tree. I could fit ten of my bedrooms in here. I could fit my entire courtyard.
I wrap myself in a sheet, shuffle over, and open two more windows. Below me stretches a hill speckled with rocks and bushes. Halfway down, a broad oak beckons. And farther still, there's a curving strip of green where trees—tiny from this distance—trail leafy fingers in a river. People are swimming. Well, not people; shades, I suppose. But even from this distance they look distinctly human, not wraithlike at all.
The scrub grass calls to me. We never had brown grass in the vale. I need to see how it feels under my feet. And those squat, scraggly bushes—I want to rub their leaves, lift my fingers, and breathe in their scent.
But where's Hades? Last night it felt like he'd never leave my side again. And now . . .
Well, if he can go off alone, I can, too. I straighten my shoulders, firming up my courage. I'm going to explore my new home. All I need is my clothes.
I look across the polished floor, but it's bare. A row of wooden chests lines the wall across from the windows. Maybe Hades tossed my chiton in there.
I throw open the first trunk. Mountains of jewels glare out at me: diamonds, lapis, rubies, amber, little white pearls and black pearls the size of olives, and a huge golden crown slashed with rubies. A necklace dangles emeralds as fat as green plums. I run my fingers through the glittering treasure.
The second trunk is a tangle of shoes, with spun-silver laces, and diamonds encrusted like barnacles, and threeheaded dogs worked in golden filigree. I slip the last pair on under my sheet. They fit perfectly, as if they were made for me. But I catch myself. If I spend all morning getting lost in this stuff, I'll never feel the grass under my feet. I toss the shoes back and drop the lid.
Finally, in the third trunk, I find chitons—dozens and dozens of them. A tumble of color grows at my feet as I pull them out, searching for mine: saffron, persimmon, gold, a deeper purple than my mother's finest. And the decorations, the patterns! Silver seashells scattered on ocean blue, blackwinged horses flying over grass-green linen. Palace gowns, far too grand for a barefoot stroll.
One yellow dress looks plainer
To the dark—and what else? I shiver into fine-spun sheets and strain my ears, trying to hear something, anything. What sounds do shapeless wraiths make? Do they even speak once they leave their mortal bodies, or are they only wavering bits of mist? And where are those flickering torches I was counting on to give me light?
When Hades talked about the darkness beneath the earth, I didn't think he meant this .
"Hades? Anybody?"
As if in answer to my call, a faint golden rectangle emerges from the darkness, floating like four lines sketched with a glowing ember. Like a door.
I scoot to the side of the bed and swing my feet down until they meet cold, polished stone. My arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, I totter toward the glimmering outline. One careful step, two, three, four . . . and then my fingers touch wood.
Shutters! The golden rectangle is a window frame!
I fumble the latch open, and the room floods with glorious, blinding light. The sun, here in the underworld! That's the last thing I expected to find. I blink until I can make out sky and hills covered with tawny grass.
No smoky caverns, no dripping stalactites—I sigh with relief. Maybe I can handle this after all.
Now I can see the room. The bed looks like it's carved from the trunk of a single, gigantic tree. Sinuous roots, polished to a rich red-brown, disappear into the floor, as if slurping up nourishment from the land below. It's gorgeous.
But the rest of the room reels with gaudy decorations: frescoed deer cavort on the walls, geometric mosaics dance underfoot, spirals and rosettes swirl across a distant ceiling like the leaves of some towering tree. I could fit ten of my bedrooms in here. I could fit my entire courtyard.
I wrap myself in a sheet, shuffle over, and open two more windows. Below me stretches a hill speckled with rocks and bushes. Halfway down, a broad oak beckons. And farther still, there's a curving strip of green where trees—tiny from this distance—trail leafy fingers in a river. People are swimming. Well, not people; shades, I suppose. But even from this distance they look distinctly human, not wraithlike at all.
The scrub grass calls to me. We never had brown grass in the vale. I need to see how it feels under my feet. And those squat, scraggly bushes—I want to rub their leaves, lift my fingers, and breathe in their scent.
But where's Hades? Last night it felt like he'd never leave my side again. And now . . .
Well, if he can go off alone, I can, too. I straighten my shoulders, firming up my courage. I'm going to explore my new home. All I need is my clothes.
I look across the polished floor, but it's bare. A row of wooden chests lines the wall across from the windows. Maybe Hades tossed my chiton in there.
I throw open the first trunk. Mountains of jewels glare out at me: diamonds, lapis, rubies, amber, little white pearls and black pearls the size of olives, and a huge golden crown slashed with rubies. A necklace dangles emeralds as fat as green plums. I run my fingers through the glittering treasure.
The second trunk is a tangle of shoes, with spun-silver laces, and diamonds encrusted like barnacles, and threeheaded dogs worked in golden filigree. I slip the last pair on under my sheet. They fit perfectly, as if they were made for me. But I catch myself. If I spend all morning getting lost in this stuff, I'll never feel the grass under my feet. I toss the shoes back and drop the lid.
Finally, in the third trunk, I find chitons—dozens and dozens of them. A tumble of color grows at my feet as I pull them out, searching for mine: saffron, persimmon, gold, a deeper purple than my mother's finest. And the decorations, the patterns! Silver seashells scattered on ocean blue, blackwinged horses flying over grass-green linen. Palace gowns, far too grand for a barefoot stroll.
One yellow dress looks plainer
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