Chapter Thirteen

During the month that passed before the gods were to present the names of their candidates for immortality, Hades and Persephone examined the little orange tree with doubt. Only three oranges looked ripe enough to eat, and even if all it took was one decent-sized bite, that would probably translate into no more than twenty doses per orange. Sixty total. Persephone had opted not to choose anyone this time around to propose as a candidate, and when she asked Hades if he had anyone in mind, he said he needed no one except her.

But if each of the other thirteen immortals chose four, and if they were all approved, that would make fifty-two new immortals.

“Just enough orange, if we’re lucky,” Persephone concluded.

“But so many immortals.” Hades gazed into the orchard, the shadows falling over his face.

But when the meeting came, again at night around the same fire pit, nowhere near fifty-two were proposed. Most of the immortals brought no names at all.

“No one for me,” Hermes said. “It’d only tie me down.”

“None for me this time either,” Demeter said.

“I imagine someday I’ll have a love I’ll wish to bring into our circle,” Apollo said. “But for now I don’t.”

Zeus, at his turn, seemed about to speak up at some length, but a stern glance from Hera shushed him, and he only said, “No one for us, either.” A particularly beloved mortal woman would have been his suggestion, Persephone supposed, or one of his many illegitimate children. Perhaps someday he’d brave Hera’s jealousy and bring forth some such person. But not today, thankfully.

The list ultimately came down to merely five candidates: Poseidon’s wife Amphitrite; his three daughters, all grown but still young; and Adonis.

Aphrodite, of course, proposed Adonis’ name. She spoke more timidly than Persephone had ever seen. She stood with her hands drawn close to her chest, in the pose of a child expecting to be chastened. Her long black hair, rather than tumbling loose as usual, was arranged in a tame braid draped over one shoulder.

“You’ve all met him at some point,” Aphrodite said. “But he’s a better man than most of you know. It isn’t merely that I love him. I don’t intend to marry him and he knows that. Marriage isn’t my fashion. But he’s patient and smart and well-mannered, and knows how to tend vineyards and make the best wine any of you have ever tasted. In fact, he’s taken over the management of the vineyards almost completely, since his parents have grown so careless—”

“And therefore he should live forever?” Ares said with disdain.

“Let her speak,” Athena said.

“I know he’s young,” Aphrodite said. “But he shows such insight and passion already—”

Ares snorted.

“Give him a chance, please,” Aphrodite concluded, turning her face toward the others and ignoring Ares. She withdrew and sat upon her log.

“Five, then.” Athena rose. “We adjourn to think these five names over, and meet here again three days from now after sunset to vote.”

The voting day came. The immortals assembled as before.

Athena opened two skin bags, and began walking around the circle, handing out the contents. “Five white stones and five black ones for each of us. The jars will be upon that boulder.” She glanced at Rhea, who held up one of five slender-necked amphorae standing at her feet. “We’ll take turns going to them individually, and casting our votes.”

She reached Persephone, who held out her cupped palms and received the ten stones, dropped in with meticulous measure. Athena moved to Hades and parceled out the stones into his hands.

Rhea, meanwhile, stood near the fire, and shook each amphora and tipped it upside down to show they were empty. Each candidate’s name was written in charcoal upon a jar, in the angular lettering that had lately become common among educated Greeks. Rhea carried the five jars to the waist-high boulder several paces outside the circle, in the dark of the night, and set them upon it.

“Rhea, as the most senior member, would you like to vote first?” Athena asked.

Rhea nodded, picked up her white and black stones, and took them to the jars. With her back to the others, she dropped a stone into each. They clinked and bounced against the hard clay. She threw the unused stones out onto the dark beach, then came back and sat, her face impassive. The others all followed suit in turn.

At Persephone’s turn, standing before the amphorae in the shadows, she dropped a white stone into each of the three jars marked with the names of Poseidon’s daughters. They were kind young women, friendly the few times she had met them, and she heard only good about them. They were still young, only one married so far. But Poseidon said they all longed to become immortal and take the glorious path that their father and aunts and uncles had been given. Even the married daughter, he said, was not deeply enamored of her husband, and looked upon immortality as a chance at a happier life. Persephone was glad to offer it to them.

She also selected a white stone to drop into the jar with Adonis’ name. He had never truly been a rival to Hades. Demeter had wished that match, not Adonis, nor Persephone, nor anyone else particularly. He loved only Aphrodite, and had never been more than a charming friend to Persephone. Aphrodite knew him best, and Persephone trusted her word. Besides, the male gods would likely vote against Adonis out of sheer jealousy, so he needed all the white stones he could muster.

Amphitrite’s jar she left for last. She plucked a white stone from her palm, then hesitated. Amphitrite was a good, bright, caring woman; everything Persephone had heard about her, or seen with her own eyes, indicated this. But Demeter had once loved Poseidon, and might still. Would making his wife immortal make Persephone’s mother miserable?

But then, Demeter had tried to keep Persephone and Hades apart, and the recollection chilled Persephone’s sympathy.

Besides, if they all had eternity to exist together, Poseidon could easily come back around to loving Demeter, and Amphitrite could find another man. Or Demeter could come to love someone else.

Persephone dropped the white stone into the jar and returned to her seat.

Hades voted, and all the rest.

Rhea and Athena brought the jars back to the fireside.

“Ten votes in favor are needed for approval,” Athena reminded everyone, as they leaned closer to watch the results. She lifted one of the amphorae. “Amphitrite.” She tipped out the contents into a wooden tray. “Twelve white, three black. Amphitrite joins us.”

Persephone smiled at Poseidon, as did nearly all the others. He drew in a deep breath and beamed, but gazed at the fire rather than meeting anyone’s eyes. It must be difficult to adjust to, she thought, realizing the wife you had accepted to be mortal was in fact staying beside you forever. Hades would know best how that felt. Indeed, his arm slipped around Persephone, and he hugged her. Meanwhile, Demeter gazed at the fire with a carefully neutral smile. Sorry, Mother, thought Persephone. You’ll have to live with it.

“Rhode,” said Athena, naming Amphitrite and Poseidon’s eldest daughter. She poured out the stones. “Thirteen white, two black.”

Nearly everyone smiled now, and Poseidon’s face grew more joyous. Keeping a child forever was surely easier to be glad about.

“Kymia.” Poseidon’s second daughter. Athena revealed the count. “Thirteen white, two black.” She cleared the stones away. “Benna,” she said—the third daughter. She poured out the jar. “Thirteen white, two black. All three daughters join us.”

The group drew a breath and murmured remarks, their tone delighted on the whole—especially Hermes, who raised his voice above the hum to ask, “Poseidon, once they’re immortal and fully able to fight me off, I’m allowed a go at it, right?”

Smiling, Poseidon threw a shell at him.

Though the votes were meant to be secret, Persephone studied each face in the circle and tried to decipher who dropped in those black stones. Would Demeter have voted against Amphitrite, but not the daughters? Quite possible. Hera and Ares, she supposed, could always be counted upon for jealousy, and would disapprove nearly everyone. But she supposed the truth behind the votes could surprise her. Who knew another’s heart, really?

Athena picked up the last jar. “Adonis,” she announced.

The group went silent. Aphrodite clenched her hand around her braid.

The stones scattered into the tray. “Four white, eleven black.”

A collective sigh whispered through the watchers. Aphrodite closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Pity moved Persephone to speak. “Couldn’t she propose his name another year?”

“I don’t see why not.” Athena tipped the stones out onto the ground. “Circumstances may change, and with them our opinions.”

“I doubt they’d change much.” Hera’s voice was dry.

Aphrodite rose, her back straight, grace infusing her limbs again. “We’ll see. I grieve mainly to have to break the news to him. It will hurt him more than me.” She turned away and stepped over the log.

“But you have so many ways to console him,” Ares taunted.

She sent back a glare at him. “You needn’t seek me out for a while, Ares.” She stalked off into the darkness, her pale green cloak rippling behind her.

Ares scoffed and leered at his companions, as if to prove he didn’t care.

Persephone guessed otherwise, however, and Hermes must have too. His eyes glinted with wickedness, and he adopted a concerned tone. “My friend, it’s too bad you don’t practice thinking as often as you practice throwing a spear.”

Ares had no spear at hand—probably he knew better than to bring one, after the episode with Kerberos—but within a moment his arm flashed out and a knife flew at Hermes, its polished blade gleaming in the firelight. Persephone gasped, as did everyone around her.

But Hermes dodged aside and caught the knife by its handle. “You see,” he said, “I knew you would do that.” He flicked it into the sand beside Ares’ feet before rising and strolling away.