“Did you read the record yet?” I ask Phoebe, hoping that will divert them from what Troy and I are doing, even though I already know the answer. If she’d read it, she would have told me.

“No.” She looks down at her running shoes. “I will. Soon.”

Griffin wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“When the time is right,” I say. Then, patting her on the arm as I walk past, I add, “We’ll let you get on with your gift giving.”

“And your running,” Troy adds.

He hurries out in front of me, throwing Phoebe and Griffin a quick wave as he escapes out into the hall. I turn and follow him before they can ask any questions. Now that I know what needs to be done, I’m eager to get started. And without an audience.

“I don’t like it, Nic,” Troy says, pacing in my room.

“I’m not asking you to like it,” I reply. “I’m not even asking you to be here.”

He flashes me an angry glare.

“Well, I am here,” he says. “And I’m staying. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“Then enough with the warnings and disapproving looks.” I shove both books onto the top shelf in my closet. Just because we know what we have to do doesn’t mean we might not need them again. The gods are brilliant at surprise twists. “Or I’ll neofacture a gag and some handcuffs.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to argue.

“You’re right,” he finally says. “What’s the plan?”

I grab my desk chair and swing it around so I can drop into the seat with my arms over the back. “The golden feather,” I say. “That’s definitely the easiest.”

“Easy?” Troy says with a cough-laugh.

I scowl and he snaps his mouth shut.

“I can autoport to Olympus,” I explain. “I’ve been there before.”

Back when all this started. The memories are still so fresh they could have happened yesterday. If I close my eyes, I’m there, in the gleaming halls of Olympus. I can see my younger self, blond hair bouncing in pigtails as little Griffin and I race toward the nursery.

I carried the ambrosia. It was a tiny amount, a small cup of the glowing golden liquid.

We snuck into the room where Hera’s new baby slept. His nanny, we knew, always drifted off to sleep as soon as the baby fell quiet—being Hera’s servant was an exhausting job. As we tiptoed across the floor, she didn’t stir.

Peering over the edge of the crib, I was excited. I thought we were doing something great—feeding the baby the nectar of the gods. The grown-up gods drank it like water, but the poor baby had never had a taste. He would grow up to be a god, too, and I thought he deserved a taste of the magical food.