Persephone's world was once overwhelming: Olympian hills, lush plains, and the cool and deep wells of the subterranean deep -- she was welcome in them all, if never quite enough.

Too immortal for the mortals, too mortal for the gods -- even Hades, in the end, was not immune to the faults of her blood.

Persephone sits in a cottage built of her own hands, buried in the only bit of lushness her mother's anger has not yet touched and her husband's eye cannot yet see, and for the first time wonders what it means to be herself, alone.