Elpis' glee vanished. The change of expression was nearly mechanical, a switch flipped, frequencies rearranged, humanity not included.
"You won't help then?" she asked with friendly calm. "That's sad. So very, very sad. Legra will die and rot and never, never make toast in the evening because her sad, sad grandpa doesn't want to fix it."
"Oh, well!" Elpis drummed her palms on the table. "It's okay! I don't really, really need your help collecting the pieces; I only told you about it to be nice. You can sit and frown, if you'd like. I don't mind.
"Because you'll help in the end. You won't be able not to. Not you, not Hephaestus, not the gods' own outcast and prodigy." Elpis eyes were liquid, abysmal. "You'll help me do it because you love your work more than you love your consience, because you've never hoped to be a good man, not really. Not really, really." She leaned in, face tilted, curls brushing the tabletop, a sly and warm gaze peeking up from the skewered angle. "You'll help me, O Lame One, O Coppersmith, O Fallen, because you've never hoped to be good or kind or just--you only hoped to have. It's why you bound your mother, why you trapped your wife, why you fell upon Athen's goddess, why you make and you make and you make and you never get it right.
"You'll help me, Olympian, because of all your works and projects, she's the only thing you have that hasn't rejected you. She's the only piece of hope you've got left--and you'll never have another, if she dies in your care."
"Besides," Elpis said cheerily, pulling back. "I'm not going to hurt Mischa. That's ridiculous."