The Pythian power was not, as I’d once believed, merely some kind of supernatural battery. It had a consciousness all its own, one it had developed in the centuries after Apollo sliced off a bit of his energy to give to his priestesses at Delphi, the original Pythian Court. He might have assumed that it would help to keep us in line, but the power had had different ideas. It had taken its duties seriously, and become as much a guardian of the timeline as we were.

It was a symbiotic relationship, with the Pythias serving as its eyes and ears through our clairvoyance, and it serving as the source of our power. It sent us wherever there were problems with the time line, and we did our best to fix them. And it compensated for whatever we screwed up in the process.

Or, at least, it tried.

But there were things it couldn’t fix, and you never knew what those things might be. A man dying could end up being less problematic for the time line than something seemingly trivial—like buying a pie. So, I’d learned to ask, whenever I had a chance, before I put my foot in it. And although the power didn’t speak, it had ways of letting me know if I was about to make a serious mistake.

But it was seemingly indifferent to me buying breakfast, so I shook my purse to get the pie man’s attention, and saw his eyes zero in on my window.

He made a big to-do about doffing the flat cap that he’d just put back in place, and sketched a bow. “Send your servant out, miss, and I’ll send her back with the best pies in London!”

“What kind of pies?” I asked breathlessly, my stomach growling.

“Why, whatever kind you like. Minced meat and gravy; eel; beef with eel liquor—really stick to yer ribs, they will; steak and kidney; good old chicken; ham and leek—”

“One of each, except the eel,” I said, trying to talk while salivating.

“Right you are, miss. Just send out your girl—”

“Can’t we do it from here?”

He paused, probably because I was on the second floor and there was a significant gap between the house and the street due to the sidewalk, and then to the stairs that went down a flight to the servants’ entrance below street level.

But I didn’t give him a chance to say no. I threw him the purse, even though it contained way more than necessary, and saw his face transform. The guy wanted to sell some pies. Which was perfect, because I wanted to eat some! I was freaking starving; I was always freaking starving anymore, and that was when I hadn’t missed a meal or two. My stomach grumbled plaintively, and loudly enough that I was surprised he didn’t notice.