All the while, the middle-aged one stands silent, almost like she’s watching me with empty eyes. Her lips spread into a faint smile. She looks the most like a mother, the most like my own mother—or at least the mom I’ve always believed was my mother.

The middle-aged one doesn’t say a word, just stands there smiling, like she’s taking it all in.

“I called you for a reason, Mothers,” I say, choking over the last word. “I need to travel back in time.”

“Impossible,” the ancient one says.

The young one quips, “That’s illegal.”

Only the middle-aged one asks, “Why?”

I focus on her, since she seems like the reasonable one.

“I think you know why,” I say.

She shakes her head. “You cannot change the past.”

I am so tired of people telling me that. What’s the point of chronoportation if not to change the past? Illegal or not, it’s a power for a reason.

My barely controlled anger explodes. “It isn’t fair!” I shout. “What happened to my parents—biological or not, they’re the only parents I have ever known—isn’t fair. They don’t deserve their punishment and neither do Griffin’s parents.”

“The judgment of Olympus . . .” the old one begins.

“Is fallible,” I bark. “They make mistakes. And that was a mistake.”

“There are procedures,” the young one offers. “You can appeal the decision.”

“I have.” I really want to punch something. “They turned me down.”

As if the gods want to admit they made a mistake. As if Hera will let them rescind the order that banished my parents and smoted Griffin’s. If the gods are good at anything, they have mad grudge skills. Hera better than most. She’ll never let it go.

When the Fates look like they want to keep arguing, I pull out the secret weapon.

“You owe me,” I say, my voice weaker than I would like. “You owe my parents. They have raised me, taken care of me, loved me. You abandoned me, and they took me in.”

“We did not—” The youngest starts to say something, but the middle-aged one stops her.

“You are right,” she says. “We owe you a great deal.” To her sisters, she says, “Let us conference.”

I stand there, feeling awkward and scared while they debate my request. Fervent whispers and hushed argument fill the temple. Finally, after what feels like forever, they turn back to face me.

“We are agreed,” the middle-aged one says.

The young one says, “We will give you the coin.”

“You may go back,” the old one says, pulling a piece of gold out of thin air. This one is stamped with the image of Chronos’s youthful face. “To see the right of things.”

Finally.

Without hesitation, I reach forward and take the coin.

12