Eurydice opened the cupboard and was met with bare walls, save a tragically empty jar of honey and one slice of bread. A sinking feeling grew in her chest and was matched by trembling fingers. Hands shaking from the cold and despair, she knew what little she had was nowhere near enough to get by, even for a day.

You have to go, the wind seemed to say as it seeped through the cracked floorboards and chilled her to the bone.

Go where, she thought, and the wind answered back.

Anywhere.

Eurydice found herself agreeing as she scraped the bottom of the jar with the last slice of bread and slowly chewed, letting the taste linger as long as she could. If she stayed here now, she'd die. That fact was inescapable, so she had to go to a place where there was enough food and drink to live on. It didn't have to be forever; every place she'd been had never lasted. It just had to be enough for now, and then she would move on.

She was too used to the world to expect anything kinder.


This place was little kinder than the one she'd left, but it had food and a bed, so that was something. Aristaeus didn't give much, but he didn't ask much in return, and Eurydice would do whatever was needed to survive. They were hardly friends, barely even acquaintances, but food was food and shelter was shelter.

Eurydice could feel the wind prickling at her back as the days grew colder, but if Aristaeus noticed, he didn't seem to care. He was a rustic beekeeper, and in the old days, before the weather turned, he had a safe, comfortable lifestyle. But now the summers grew short and the winters ever longer, and Eurydice knew what he seemed to have trouble grasping—that his bees, his livelihood, would no longer be enough to sustain him.

"Dinner's on me," he said one night as he came home with a half-full honeycomb, assorted fruits, and a little cheese. They ate their fill, Eurydice ravenously, and as Aristaus went his separate way—she didn't ask, and he didn't answer, and that was fine for both of them—she found herself staring at the leftovers.

Aristaeus had only eaten his share of the honey inside, but Eurydice knew you could eat the whole comb if needed; she was sure he knew that too, but had never felt the need to. She knew the fruits he had gathered could be stretched out for days if eaten slowly, and while the cheese was reduced to crumbs, that too could be savored and portioned out.

But there wasn't enough for both of them to live on, and Eurydice knew what she had to do.

Without an ounce of regret, she gathered the leftovers and fled the premises, pausing only to rifle through the cupboards for anything more. Eurydice found an old ale bottle and grinned.

With any luck, it would be just enough for her to survive until she found a new place.


If the soup and sandwich she'd had at Hermes' bar was enough to make her stay a few days, it was nothing compared to the bounty Lady Persephone brought with her up top. Even without Orpheus's song that grew a carnation out of nothing—and his lofty promises of food, shelter, and warmth that she was just beginning to believe could come true—Eurydice knew she'd made the right choice in staying here for the summer.

Persephone's main attraction was wine, of course, but as the fruit grew heavy on the vine and crops grew fat and plentiful in her very presence, the entire community pooled their resources together for a veritable feast. Eurydice knew when to stretch her food and when to indulge, and with a goddess blessing the harvest, this was a time to indulge.

She danced with reluctance but ate with aplomb, to cheers from the crowd and Orpheus, who happily toasted to Persephone and her bounty. As they all ate and drank once more in celebration, Persephone looked at Eurydice's meager plate and frowned.

"It's time to live a little, sister," Persephone said with a wink, and gestured for the others to listen. "She's had a hard life, but now we'll show just who makes the fruit of the vine get ripe. Gather round—everybody help fill this little lady's plate up!"

"Won't they need more," Eurydice asked, and Persephone laughed and shushed her. "Not when I'm around. That long winter was just a bad dream, and it's time to wake up and smell the grapevines!"

In no time Jax piled on roasted carrots, Dwayne refilled her wine from his own cup, and Orpheus shared a honey cake, dripping with syrup, from his own plate. Everyone passed the plate around until it was overflowing with food and drink. Eurydice's eyes sparkled at the shared kindness, while her heart and stomach swelled in appreciation of the food.

It was more than enough, more than she could ever eat in one sitting, so she knew she'd have some for another day—a blessed surplus, something she'd never once had the privilege of experiencing before. And as honey dripped down her chin as she ate, Eurydice knew, for the first time in her life, what home felt like.


"Let go, Orpheus. That's mine," Eurydice grumped as he moved a hand towards the last remaining pancake on the table. The poet pulled his hand back, chastened, and he blushed.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought you were done eating."

"So did I," Eurydice said, and Orpheus's stomach growled in response. Eurydice's followed, and they shared an awkward laugh at the wordless conversation before reality set in.

They were both hungry, summer had left and winter was creeping in, and there was only a lone, if prodigious, pancake left. Fear began to creep in, but Orpheus only smiled, and the sparkle in his eyes made Eurydice believe, in the moment, that anything was possible.

"I know what to do," he said. "It's like what Lady Persephone said—well, what her mama Demeter said," he corrected himself. "When times get tough you take what you can get and make the most of what you have," he said, splitting the pancake in half with a soft knife and drizzling both sides in syrup.

Orpheus finished by drawing a smiley face, which made her smile back in spite of herself. "Look, Eurydice—it's just enough for both of us."

As they ate what was there, neither too hungry nor too full, Eurydice found herself agreeing—what they had was just enough.

And it would have to be enough until Eurydice was ready to go foraging again.


Somewhere amidst the wind and snow, a tree branch fell onto some power lines. The bar's lights flickered, sparked, and then faded, leaving Eurydice in the dark. She swore and scrambled for the matches, lighting one just in time to peer into the supply cabinet—and when she did, she swore louder. A few sorry firewood logs and half a can of beans (it'd surely be empty if Orpheus hadn't professed a dislike for them) were all that remained of Persephone's summer bounty and what little they'd managed to scrape up after she left.

What they had was nowhere near enough, and if Eurydice were the same girl as when she met Orpheus, still the girl who ran with the wind at her heels, she'd take what little was left for herself and never look back. She'd survived on less before, and knew that a few logs for firewood was better than nothing, and half a can of beans would last when properly heated and rationed out.

But she wasn't that girl anymore, and she watched Orpheus, her Orpheus, poring over his words with only one of Hecate's candles to light his desk. His head drooped as exhaustion took hold, and pity and grief and something like hope poured over Eurydice in waves. She wanted to go—but it would break his heart, and her heart ached to stay, and so she listened to it.

It would be fine, she thought. She'd trust in him, trust in his song, to keep her warm and safe. She would trust in his promise of spring returning and flowers blooming, and a world where there was enough to eat for everyone. But if he was going to write a song to save them all, Orpheus needed a way to keep going.

There wasn't enough for both of them to live on, and Eurydice knew what she had to do.

She closed the cupboard and left a note behind ("Orpheus, you'd better eat those beans or so help me") before putting the last remaining logs on the dwindling fireplace. Then Eurydice went upstairs and kissed his shoulder goodbye, giggling as he barely stirred, head still in the notebook.

With her lover given the last of the supplies, Eurydice headed out to look for more. The winds grew colder and the snow deeper every minute, but Eurydice pressed on. The look of the clouds and the fierceness of the howling wind were concerns, but she tried to have faith that the storm would blow over soon. Finding fresh berries and firewood further lifted her spirits. She'd bring back enough food and supplies for the both of them to last the winter—or at least just enough to get by.

When the winds changed in a minute, violent gales ripping everything she had away like living things, even her coat, Eurydice wondered if maybe her newfound optimism came too soon. The winds seemed to confirm it, and if she didn't know better she'd swear they were laughing as she screamed Orpheus's name to no avail.

Her fear gave way to anger, and she stomped in the snow, angry at the world and the wind and Orpheus before collapsing in a blind panic. Her luck had run out, and Eurydice knew she'd been a fool to trust in a song to keep her alive.

And when the old man in the long leather coat presented coins and a way out, Eurydice considered his offer deeply.

Then, heart and gut aching in equal measure, she chose.

The money, tangible and warm in her trembling hand, was proof that in Hadestown she'd always have food and warmth.

Even if it was just enough, Eurydice would get by. She always did.