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“He has children from his late wife,” Demeter spoke to Persephone in hushed tones, leading her down the passage that led the celebration. “He will be in no hurry to have another.”
Persephone heard her mother’s words and felt nausea churn her stomach. Children? They were precious, to be sure. But she’d yet to experience any life of her own. The duties of a wife and mother would ensure nothing changed; life would go on as it always had for her.
No, that was not true. She’d go from being the sheltered daughter of a Goddess to wife of a man she did not love and mother to a child she did not want.
But perhaps that fate was better than to remain an unnecessary Goddess? She ignored the tug at her heart.
“Don’t pout,” Demeter scolded. “Look around you, daughter. All this will be yours.”
That King Erysichthon was wealthy, there was no doubt. Yards of the finest linen hung over the marble walls, elegantly carved wax tapers were lit in each of extravagantly carved sconces, and fresh boughs of herbs and flowers were tied together and hung to scent the air.
“Why does he want to marry me?” Persephone asked.
Her mother turned wide eyes upon her, smiling a tolerant smile. “You are a Goddess, Persephone. You are beautiful. Why would he not want to marry the daughter of his patron goddess? Of course he wants to marry you.”
As they rounded the corner, Persephone was hard pressed not to gasp at the vision before her. She’d never seen so many people gathered together, all draped in such finery.
Demeter turned to her daughter, arranging the mask upon her face with a critical eye.
“Is this really necessary, mother?” Persephone asked. The porcelain of the mask smelled musky and felt constricting against her face.
“He should not see you yet. Did we not discuss this before we left? We must determine if he is worthy of you, without your beauty acting as an enticement. It is a good mask.”
It is a mask you wear to visit your lovers undetected. But Persephone said nothing, relieved that the mask was in place, for she knew her cheeks were red.
“You should use whatever feminine wiles you see fit,” her mother continued.
“Feminine wiles? I have none. You’ve seen to that.”
Demeter waved her hand in front of her, dismissing her. “You are my daughter. Such affectations and devices will come most naturally to you, of that I have no fear.”
And if I do not want to use such tactics? If I do not desire this match? Again, she knew better than to speak such words.
Demeter smiled at her face. “You are not the only masked face here this night. We will not make this an easy conquest for our prince.” She straightened the mask, adding, “You have nothing to fear this night, daughter. Erysichthon is a gentle giant, one most faithful to me, and therefore, to you too.”
Demeter left her side, preceding her into the courtyard so that Persephone might remain unknown.
Persephone waited, resting her head against the wall as she drew in slow steadying breaths. How she wished this night was over. How she wished she was on the plains or meadows or in one of her trees.
She slipped around the corner and hurried towards a heavily draped column, avoiding the curious eyes of those milling about her. She clutched the fabric, peering around it to assess the room’s company.
Faces, some masked, some painted, others free from any disguise, filled the room. So many, too many… After a life of living out of doors, of seeing few people, she felt caged.
She closed her eyes, remembering the whispered words of the grass, the deep tones of the trees, the sweet songs of the flowers.
She opened her eyes, somewhat soothed. She stared around the room, finding the man that was surely Erysichthon. And once again, panic descended upon her.
Men, the nymphs assured her, came in all shapes and sizes. Their appearance gave little insight into the spirit within. Persephone prayed this was true with Erysichthon. A gentle giant, her mother had said. The man was a giant. She would hold her mother accountable for the rest of her description as well.
The man was large, broad and thickly muscled. He was dark, with black hair and a heavy shadow on his angled jaw. He sat, so his height was indeterminate, but she assumed he would tower, as his knees were hunched to allow him his seat.
His face was well lined. A deep furrow marred his brow, presenting a daunting scowl. And yet the wealth of wrinkles layered at the corner of his eyes indicated he was equally fond of smiling. Even now, speaking to another, he was most animated.
She sighed. It was a small comfort, to discern his state of mind from the expression on his face. Unlike… No, she would not think of Hades.
She stared at Erysichthon. He was to be her husband. He was her mother’s choice. She turned, her back pressed against the column as she tried to steady her pulse.