Draw for us, Minos says. That death’s-head mask is as expressionless as ever. For the first time it occurs to me to wonder why he brought me here, why he shot me full of the same glimmering stuff that pulled Aurora down into the dark and then sent me home before I could cross all the way over. Why he led me down that long passage to this wretched palace of death. Why he’s offering me good advice now, reminding me of the single thing I know how to do better than anyone else I know. The two of them are watching me, inscrutable.
Fine. Draw for them. That I can do. I sink to my haunches, take out my brushes and ink. My sketchbook. I turn to a blank page. Breathe in. Start to draw. I draw me and Aurora, the story of us. I draw us as little girls, clasping our bloody palms together and making promises about forever. I draw us in the pit, clothes sticking to our bodies, our faces jubilant, waiting for the next chord. I draw us in the woods, sleeping under a canopy of leaves. I draw the map we made on the walls of my room, the world we swore we’d find together. I draw the wretched mess of my own envy, draw the poison I let creep into my heart, draw how much I wanted her broken fairytale life, how much I wanted her perfect face, her endless charm. I draw us in her bathtub, laughing at each other. I draw Aurora as Ripley, battling aliens in the far reaches of space; I draw her as Aphrodite rising out of the ocean; I draw her as the mermaid Ondine singing mortals down to the deep. I draw her as I know her: capricious, fierce, lovely, beloved. I draw Raoul and Oscar Wilde, Raoul and the fish-stall boys, Raoul bringing me back to what matters over and over again. I draw what it cost me to leave Jack standing in that terrible room, draw how much I hope he’ll find what he’s looking for, the future bright and hopeful still. I draw a way out, a way through. Draw the light of his music moving through me, that impossible gift, the music that started all of this, that drew these old gods to us like cats batting mice for sport. I draw Cass and her tarot cards, counting out the ways to keep from saying sorry; Maia kicking aside the life raft and plunging into the deep. Both of them letting us go too far until we got to here. I draw as though I’m drawing for my life, for Aurora’s life, drawing us a way out of here, a way back to the world we lived in before, where everything was simpler and the only things that could hurt us were the things I already knew. I draw until my hands cramp into claws and my vision blurs and my fingers are black with ink. Sweat runs in stinging rivulets between my breasts. Aurora’s chest rises and falls. I draw for hours or days or months or years, I draw until time stops meaning anything at all. I draw until Minos bends down and gently takes the brushes from me. He stands and faces the ice-eyed man.
Let them go. I wish it.
“Take her, then,” says the god of hell. I can see eternity in his bored blue eyes, all the dusty centuries that have passed while he waited in this room for something to happen. No wonder he likes to fuck with people. We’re the daytime soaps for him. The Real World: Hades. “Take her, and see how far you get, child.”
I don’t wait for them to change their minds. When I try to stand my legs buckle, and the pain in my knees makes me suck my breath in quick and sharp. Minos reaches out one bony hand but I shrug it away, struggle to my feet alone and stand there breathing hard until the room stops spinning.
“Aurora,” I say. “We have to go.” She doesn’t stir. Nobody said this was going to be a free ride, but I wish I had at least a couple of crafty fates on my side. I take a deep breath and pick Aurora up like I’m a newlywed carrying her across a threshold. One of her arms slung around my shoulder. Her white hair spilling down my back. She murmurs something and opens her eyes at last.
“Babycakes. You came.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say into Aurora’s cheek. I carry her out of that room with my own two hands, and I do not look back.
The ferryman is waiting where we left him, silent in his dark boat. I heave Aurora’s legs over the side, sit her in the front of the boat. Aurora slumps forward, and I climb over her. We sit like that, her nearly unconscious, me expectant, but the boat doesn’t move. I rack my mind for fairytale passwords, but everything I know is out of Grimm’s. “Open sesame” is probably a little au courant for these purists. I’m still freezing, and the empty night is not particularly cheering. Somewhere in the distance a dog howls, and I shudder. That thing, I do not want to see again.
I don’t hear Minos, don’t see him crossing the plain. One minute he isn’t there and the next he is. You have to pay the ferryman. Cross the river and follow the path. It will take you a long time. But I think you are stronger than you look.
“Pay him what?” But Minos won’t answer. “Why are you helping me?”
Minos steps forward and reaches over the gunwale, rests one hand on Aurora’s forehead. He bends down and kisses her at the place where her dark roots meet her brow. It has been a very long time. But once I too knew how to love. He reaches into his black coat and hands me my sketchbook and brushes. These are yours.
“Thank you.”
He shakes his head. You will not thank me. In his dead eyes there’s something like a very human sorrow. He raises one hand, in farewell or in benediction, and then he is gone, nothing where he stood but the empty plain and the dark palace in the distance.
I have to pay the ferryman. Maybe the ferryman wants blood. But when I take Jack’s knife out of my pocket, flip open the blade and press it against the thin pale skin at my wrist, the ferryman shakes his head. He leans forward, the hood still covering his face, and touches Aurora’s hair.
“No way,” I say. “That’s not up to me. That’s hers.” I offer him Cass’s amulet, Raoul’s rosary—not that that’s mine to give either. The knife. My hoodie, my sketchbook, my boots. But he ignores me. “Goddammit,” I mutter. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It grows.” I put Jack’s knife to her hair and start to cut. The knife is sharp but too small for what I’m using it for, and Aurora has a lot of hair. Long moments pass as I saw away, hanks coming off in my hands. I cut my finger and yelp, put it in my mouth for a moment. When I go back to cutting the white of Aurora’s hair is stained with my blood. At last I have a pile of pale strands, a larger mass than I would have thought possible. I offer it to the ferryman. “Rumpelstiltskin,” I say, but if he gets the joke it doesn’t register. These guys don’t have much of a sense of humor.
The ferryman poles us back to the other shore. Maybe it’s imagination or fear, but the crossing seems to take too long. The boat’s sluggish, the current strong. I chew on my fingers and close my eyes. I can feel the palace pulsing behind me, tugging at me with some unsubtle force. You will not thank me.
The boat scrapes against sand at last. “I could use your help,” I say to the ferryman, but he doesn’t move. He has Aurora’s hair in his lap, stroking it as though it’s a pet. It quivers like a living thing under his touch. I watch for a moment, fascinated, and then heave Aurora to her feet, careful not to rock the boat. To get her out I’ll have to more or less throw her. “You have to help me,” I say to her, shaking her. She lifts her head, opens her eyes. Looks right at me.
“I saw my dad.” Her voice is clear and high.
“Aurora, you couldn’t have. Your dad’s dead.”
“Everyone here is dead.”
“Not you. And not me. Can you take a big step? Over the side?” She obeys. The boat tips madly as she steps out, and I think for a second I’ll go flying, but I hop clear before I can lose my footing.