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Summary
It’s Persephone’s first winter down home since Orpheus and Eurydice, that whole sorry mess, and Hades talks like there ain’t a grime of guilt coating his words, thick and black as a seam of coal in the mines; like Persephone can’t spot that grime, like she ain’t been his wife and shared his bed since long before mortal kingdoms crumbled under the weight of immortal industry.