ladies who should be playing mythical head bitches in charge | RACHEL HURD-WOOD as PERSEPHONE, the goddess of spring, the queen of the underworld.

Her mother weeps, every time she ascends from the bowels of the earth to return to the light. “Oh, my poor girl,” Demeter whispers. “My poor girl.” She does not tell her mother of the waters of Lethe, which glimmers for her alone in the dark. She does not tell her mother of the spirits of kings and princes, who join her at her high table. She does not tell her mother of the pomegranate seeds that burst on her tongue; the sweetness of the very fruit that had incarcerated her. She does not tell her mother of her husband’s lips against her skin. I am the queen of the undead, the words sit on her tongue but she bites down on it; bites it back. It is her secret and hers alone. I have tired of the light, and oh, mother, she thinks almost regretfully: you have never felt the shadows. She stands on her tiptoes, and kisses her mother on the cheek.