Persephone was halfway through breakfast when Cerbie started howling at the gates. The sound carried through the stone halls of the castle, three voices layered into one long, anxious wail. She set down her cup and caught the look on Hades's face — concern, but something else underneath it. Something careful. She followed him to the gates, where a delivery waited just beyond the iron skulls and scrollwork. An ornate box sat on the threshold, gold filigree catching the dim light. Pomegranates spilled from the open lid, absurdly bright and perfect. Cerbie's enchanted chew toy lay abandoned at his feet, forgotten. All three heads focused on the box, whining. Hades didn't touch it. He stood very still, the way he did when he was working through a problem he didn't want to name. Persephone felt the weight of it settle in her chest. Her mother had sent pomegranates. To the Underworld. To her. "She knows I live here," Persephone said quietly. She picked up the box and tucked it under one arm. Cerbie stopped howling. Hades's shoulders dropped half an inch. The gates swung shut behind them as they walked back inside, and Persephone carried her mother's point all the way to the kitchen, where she would deal with it on her own terms.