Demeter read the sealed decree twice before the wax finished cooling on her palm. Hades had tightened the terms again. Persephone's stay in the underworld would stretch from eight months to nine, and the decree named no witness, no signature but his own. Demeter stood inside her round greenhouse, the gold dome above her ringing with morning light, and felt the vines at her feet begin to blacken. She pressed her hand flat against a marble column until the rot stopped. Her daughter had been taken without warning a thousand years ago. Every year since, Demeter had bargained for more months of her back. Every year, the ground she stood on gave a little more. She needed to bring the violation before the council. She had no proof. The decree in her hand was the only copy, and Hades had sealed it so that breaking the wax would burn the parchment to ash. Demeter had seen this trick before. A god could not carry a sealed decree into the council chamber and open it there without destroying the very thing that proved the crime. Her pig, Eubuleus, nosed at her ankle, vines trailing from his gold trotters. He had rooted through her gardens since Persephone was small. Demeter knelt and touched the gold ring in his snout. "The old agreement," she said. "Six months. It was written into the soil itself when he took her." Eubuleus grunted and pushed his nose against a bed of wheat. The stalks bent toward him and split open at the grain, showing the mark of the first covenant burned into every kernel: six months above, six months below. Demeter stared. The proof was not in Hades's parchment. The proof was in every loaf of bread that had ever been baked. She grew it. She had grown it for a thousand years. She left the greenhouse with a basket of grain and walked to the gilded gate at the edge of Olympus. Zeus stood beneath the eagle emblem, waiting the way he waited for everything, arms crossed, lightning quiet at his wrist. He had brokered the first agreement. He was her ex, and he owed her a hearing. Demeter held out a single stalk. "Break it," she said. Zeus took the stalk and split it between his fingers. The kernel opened. The mark showed clean. Zeus looked at it a long moment. "Six," he said. "Not nine." His voice was flat. "Bring the basket to the council. I will not speak for you. I will not speak against you." Demeter carried the basket back through the gate. She had her evidence now, and she had Zeus's silence, which was almost the same as permission. But the decree still burned unopened in her other hand, and Hades did not yet know she had found a way around his seal. He would know by nightfall. Then he would move again.