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visit to our realm.” She answered his query only then by adding, “Do you think that at least one of the timeless Furies could not recognize the grandson of Jupiter?”
    Orpheus had all but lost the gift of speech, his last hope vanishing. It was with effort that he recalled his habitual good manners. He climbed to his feet as he found the power to say, “All the creatures of daylight, Queen Persephone, honor you.” He hastened to add, “And we honor your lord, too.”
    This last remark was little more than a weak courtesy – and a vain attempt to flatter. In truth, men and women never did raise a temple to Hades, or hold even the briefest festival in his name. Of all the gods he was the one thought to be the least concerned with human beings and their pleasures, not evil in character so much as abysmally indifferent. Within his peaked hood his features were veiled, and this figure turned resolutely away from his visitor.
    â€œI don’t forget what it was like to be a mortal woman,” Persephone was saying, her voice gentle and low, but carrying into the recesses of this palace, and softly echoing. “I remember the sun on my shoulders, and how it warmed my hair.” She laughed at this memory, as though surprised at it, and touched the naked wreath around her head.
    The queen straightened on her throne, like a woman stirring herself to more serious and present matters. She leveled her gaze at the young poet. “But we anticipate your reason for journeying so far into our world, and we must warn you, good Orpheus – what you want is impossible.”

TWENTY-THREE
    â€œHow can you steal the request from my lips?” Orpheus found the power to protest.
    â€œWe respect your steadfast love, Prince Orpheus,” she responded, “but no human soul can be returned to life once it sleeps in our kingdom. Not even someone as noble-natured and beloved as your Eurydice.”
    Hearing the name of his bride spoken in this cold palace gave Orpheus such pain, and filled him with such longing, that he struggled to keep from groaning aloud.
    â€œQueen Persephone,” said the poet, his voice hoarse with feeling, “I have come to sing for you.” Orpheus despaired now that any poetry could stir compassion from such a place, but he would not depart without lifting his voice.
    â€œWill you play us a tune,” asked Persephone, with something very much like hope, “on that gift from Apollo?”
    Orpheus cradled the lyre. Even here in this chill, the silver frame was warm beneath his touch.
    â€œI pray that I may,” Orpheus managed to respond.
    Persephone clasped her hands thoughtfully, as though weighing the consequences of music in such a place. She turned to look at her husband, but Lord Hades continued to give no sign that he was aware of their guest.
    â€œYou may sing for us, Orpheus,” said Queen Persephone at last, “and play Apollo’s lyre – but only with my lord’s permission.”
    She turned her head and waited for the grand, hooded figure beside her to make a sound. The god showed no sign of having heard – except to turn, almost imperceptibly, even farther away.
    Persephone waited for the immortal husband to show some sign of permission, but at last she turned to Orpheus and parted her hands.
    There is nothing I can do .
    Orpheus touched the strings, accidentally, as he turned away from the king and queen, ready to set down the silver instrument. This grazing touch, a chance chord, made such a sweet stir in this shadowy chamber that he could not keep his hand from plucking the chord again – a beautiful sound.
    The shadow of your hand ,
    Eurydice ,
    among the shadows of the birds
    on a summer morning .
    Orpheus lifted this quiet verse to the murmur of the lyre.
    He had not intended to sing at all, and indeed his voice was barely above a whisper. But this soft fragment of song, created in the moment, was enough to