Finally, when I am about to pass out from holding my breath, they turn back to me. The middle-aged one steps closer and holds the eye toward me.

“We have come up with an acceptable alternative,” she says.

I don’t ask, Acceptable to who?

“We will agree to change the course of your parents’ . . .” She shifts uncomfortably. “Of your adopted parents’ lives, on one condition.”

“Yes,” I blurt. “Okay.”

“You have not heard the condition,” the old one snaps.

“It doesn’t matter,” I reply. “I’ll do anything.”

“But still, you must consider,” the middle-aged one says. “The condition is this: you must accept the gift of your heritage.”

“A gift?” I echo.

Like a present. That sounds like a good thing, not like something I have to weigh and consider before I decide.

Of course, this is the world of Greek mythology. Nothing is ever that straightforward. This must be the crowning surprise twist, the grand finale.

I ask, “What kind of gift?”

“An ability,” the middle-aged one replies.

“Precognition,” the old one grumbles.

My silence must betray my confusion, because the young one explains, “You’ll see the future.”

“Second sight,” the middle-aged one adds.

I jerk back, leaning back into my heels. Now, that I did not expect.

Maybe I should have. After what happened in Poseidon’s throne room and at the entrance to the Hall of Springtime, maybe I should have guessed this was coming.

The ability to see the future is not unheard of in the world of gods and myths, but the people who get the gift . . . well, let’s just say they don’t always wind up with happy endings. Cassandra went insane because no one believed her prophecies. Tiresias was blind and spent seven years as a woman. Manto was taken captive as a prize of war.

So, yeah, not great things.

But the idea that by this one simple—fine, not simple, but easy—action, I can make everything right with my parents? Where do I sign up?

“Yes,” I say again, this time with full knowledge of what I’m accepting. “I’ll do it. I’ll accept the gift.”

The middle-aged one extends her hand. I reach up and take it, and when I do I feel flash of light in my mind. It’s like a thousand thoughts explode into my brain at once.

I close my eyes to shut out as much sensation as possible.

“You will learn to filter them,” the middle-aged one promises.

“Calm your mind,” the young one says.

“Focus on a single point,” the old one advises. “Focus on your parents.”

The moment she mentions my parents, all the random thoughts clear away and I can see my mom and dad. My real mom and dad—not the three women who . . . made me.

I open my eyes.

“They’re back,” I say, my voice a rough whisper. “My parents are back on Serfopoula. Back in the hematheos world.”