Sophie discreetly pulled up her sleeve. She’d fashioned a bracelet to hold the shard out of some thin wire she’d had in her car—leftovers from a school project to build a model of the Eiffel Tower, whatever that was. She shook her head. “It feels the same. Glows the same. Pulses the same. It’s still really cold.”

“And inside you? Is there a vibration? A call?”

She let her sleeve drop back over the bracelet. “Nothing—or nothing new. It’s the same as before. Just a weird buzzing in my bones. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“That’s the magic inside you, ready to use.”

She scoffed. “Use how?”

“To defend yourself.” Piers glanced back and forth between Sophie and the statue of Athena. “To contact her?”

“Yeah, that’s not really working out so far.”

No. They’d both tried talking to Athena and the other Olympians as they gazed upon their marble likenesses. They’d muttered prayers, internally and aloud, and even discreetly touched the ice shard to the statues, even though ropes were meant to keep them away. They’d been shushed and scolded by museumgoers several times, and frankly, Piers was losing hope that this would help them. He thought they needed to pray in a temple specifically dedicated to Athena, but Sophie said the most important one was half the world away, in ruins, impossible to actually stand in, and too expensive to get to anyway.

His hands fell to his hips. He pursed his lips. “Should we try your MoMA?” They’d covered the Met’s classical sections twice now—Greek and Roman. Apparently, these Romans had come along and adopted his gods but given them different names. Didn’t that just confuse people?

“I guess so.” Sophie rubbed her fingers over the Shard of Olympus through her clothing. “I’m not sure we’re on the right track, though.”

Piers leaned in and kissed the top of her head, her sweet-smelling shampoo making his mouth water. “It’s all right, kardoula mou. We’ll figure it out.”

“Sweetheart?” She smiled. “That’s nice.”

“You understand?” he asked in surprise.

She nodded. “We still use some of the same terms of endearment in my family. I guess that somehow trickled down from our common heritage.”

Emotion pushed at Piers’s ribs. He liked the idea of them having something in common. It made him feel less lost.

“Come.” He squeezed Sophie’s hand, holding on to it. “To MoMA.”

“To MoMA,” she echoed in a soldier’s voice.

They were outside and in a quiet, tree-covered section of the park when Novalight himself stepped into their path. Piers recognized him from seeing pictures on Sophie’s phone. Self-importance rolled off him like the stench of dung. Several of his hired ruffians flanked him.