Page 65 of Love and Death
I need to tell someone before it’s too late.
Rising to my feet, I spin around to look for Persephone, only to learn that neither she nor Cerberus are anywhere to be found. The fog now so thick, I can no longer see the door to her chambers.
My stomach knots at this.
I’d been so caught up in my own thoughts that I hadn’t stopped to notice that I was alone, or even—
I turn to look around the room, and the ground beneath my feet squelches, stopping me in my tracks as my heart leaps into my throat.
The moor is slowly sinking.
What’s happening here? How long was I asleep?
These questions burrow into my chest, bringing with them a whole new level of trepidation. I could have been gone for minutes, hours … days, even.
For all I know, Hades has already returned.
I have to steady myself against this thought. Regardless, time is running out, and if I can’t find a way out of this moor soon, it may not matter.
Walking to the bank of what’s left of the mossy bed, I peer out through the heavy fog, but it’s impossible to make out anything. I turn to search my surroundings for some means of help, when my eyes catch on Eros’ tattered coat.Father’stattered coat.
I wonder …
Sloshing my way over to him, I drop to my knees beside his body.
“Please, forgive me for this,” I say, before sticking my hand into one of the jacket pockets.
My brow furrows, crumbs and bits of dirt catching beneath my nails as I dig along the bottom seam.
Empty.
I hurry to check his other pocket, and again, nothing.
Sighing, I sit back on my heels to try to rewrite the plan that was half-forming in my mind when I go still.
Those pants, the familiar remnants of a fraying patch at the knee … they were made by my mother’s own hand. I haven’t seen him wear them since the day she died.
Only half daring to hope, I lean forward and carefully work my hand into the side pocket of the once-loose trousers now pulled far too taut over Eros’ hips. I freeze as my fingertips brush against something hard and cool to the touch. Forcing my hand deeper into his pocket, I hear the unmistakable scuff of metal and use my fingers to work them into my palm.
Still, the fabric is so tight that I struggle to remove them as I draw my hand back, but finally manage to do so.
Turning the heavy metal pieces over in my hand, mybreath catches in my throat. Five coins rest in the palm of my hand, but these are no ordinary coins.
These areobols.
Coins meant for crossing the Styx. Coins meant for the dead.
But what are these doing in Father’s pocket? And how did he come to have so many?
Turning one over in my hand, my heart skips a beat in my chest as I read the words that are scratched into the back of it, and in my father’s own hand.
Hazel, the light of my life
Swallowing the lump in the back of my throat, I turn over another. It’s blank, as is the next … but the third is also engraved.
Calla, my marigold, my treasure
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and I am unable to stop them from spilling over onto my cheeks.
