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“I’ll do anything,” Orpheus says. His knees are beginning to buckle under him. “I’ll work in the mines. I’ll work on the wall.”
“Son, you wouldn’t last a day down there,” the god drawls.
“Then I’ll sing,” he croaks. “I’ll sing for your workers to keep them in line. I’ll sing for your wife, to keep her underground. Please…” He glances back at the house—really more of a shack—where Eurydice lies by the dwindling fire. “I can’t let her starve.”
Silence. Then, a quirk of the lips—not really a smile, but the gesture of one. “I suppose I could use a canary.”
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