Crystal Caves: Book Two of the Daughters of Zeus Trilogy
Author: Kristine Grayson
Date: 2015-10-12 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Juvenile Fiction; Fantasy & Magic
Description: "Grayson's clever, humor-tinged writing is absolutely delightful. "-BooklistCrystal's mother calls her "The Unexpected Consequence of a Momentary Lapse of Judgment. " Her half-brothers call her "The Unwelcome Visitor" because they didn't even know she existed until a few months before. Her stepfather doesn't even speak to her. Crystal's beloved sisters, Tiffany and Brittany, decided to move in with their mothers after their father, Zeus, tried to use the girls to destroy true love. Crystal did what she always does-she did what her sisters wanted. Her sisters have loving mothers. Crystal doesn'
Publisher: WMG PUB

Copyright Information

Crystal Caves

Copyright © 2015 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and Layout copyright © 2015 by WMG Publishing

Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © Jsheldon86/Dreamstime, Leeloomultipass/Dreamstime, Subbotina/Dreamstime

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

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ONE

MY MOTHER CALLS me the Unexpected Consequence of a Momentary Lapse of Judgment. My older brother calls me the Unwelcome Visitor. My younger siblings don’t call me anything. They seem to think I’m going to be leaving soon.

Which, I suppose, makes sense, considering none of them knew I existed until July. Apparently, Mother never told anyone where she went those summers when she came to visit me. But Mother doesn’t tell anyone anything. It’s one of her trademarks. She’s an Independent Woman, and proud of it.

I guess someone had to force her to visit last June. That same someone reminded her that I am an Obligation, and she can’t simply ignore that, much as she wants to. Or maybe they just told her all the other mothers were taking their children away from Daddy, and she had to too.

For an Independent Woman, Mother is awfully quickly swayed by public opinion.

My real name is Crystal, and apparently, I have a last name as well, which I didn’t know until I came to New York, and the nanny—the younger children have a nanny, and I was told she would mind me as well because I’m “special” (which they all think means I’m of lesser intelligence than the rest of them when really, I’m probably smarter, just with a different life experience)—handed me a student identification card for a school that I’m apparently enrolled in, a building identification card for this fortress in which we live, and a credit card embossed with my name on it.

My new name.

Crystal Chandler.

Here’s where it gets confusing, or at least, where it gets confusing to me. My last name is Chandler. So is my mother’s. My stepfather’s last name is Wright, which is also the last name of my younger siblings. My older brother’s last name is Lieberman because, apparently, he, like me, has a different father than the other children.

Only he got to keep his father’s last name, and I got my mother’s—probably because my real father has no last name.

He doesn’t need one.

The entire world knows him as the Greek God Zeus.

I shy away now whenever I say that. The modern world hears that as craziness, but it’s the truth. And here’s more truth: I lived with my father, and his children—all of whom are my half siblings—for my entire life. Until July, I had magic. At that time, I gave it up for something called a normal life.

I do regret that decision now.

Here’s what the “normal life” consists of:

A bedroom on the third floor of my mother’s Park Avenue apartment. In the castles where I was raised, this apartment would be called a wing. It’s large. Apartments in my previous homes had two rooms. This one has three spacious floors with more rooms than I’ve seen (I’m not allowed in the servants’ quarters) and feels as big as Mount Olympus itself.

The windows in the apartment either overlook the skyscrapers and other buildings that make up New York City, or they overlook Central Park. I received a park view—something I “deserved” for the “dislocation” of being in a new place, which is what my stepfather said as he made the room assignment. My older brother, whose name is Ethan, by the way, but prefers to be called E (I think of him as EEEEEEE) groaned about this—apparently we’re on the same floor, only a few meters from one another—but everyone ignored him.

Everyone always ignores him, which, I’m guessing, is the reason he picks on me. But more about that later.

By the way—and this isn’t unimportant—my stepfather, Owen Wright, is the only person in the household who calls me by my name. He’s the only one who treats me with a bit of respect, although he does look at me like I’m an alien creature.

And, compared with the rest of this clan, I am. I have my mother’s coloring—none of the others are blessed with it. That means I have bright red hair (auburn, my mother says, but I’ve seen auburn, and I ain’t got it. What I have is bright red), bone-white skin, and bright green eyes.

What I lack is my mother’s figure. I got my figure from the Greek God side of the family. I’m large-boned and large-breasted, something that is certainly not in fashion in New York. Even though I don’t have an ounce of fat (I know this because the first thing my mother did was drag me to her personal trainer so that I could lose weight, and the trainer did a body fat index on me and said I was less than 21% fat, which, Mother snapped, had to be impossible because I was so large [her word, “large,” not anyone else’s] and the trainer took me to the nutritionist, who confirmed it. They said, Mrs. Chandler, your daughter is just a big, healthy girl, to which my mother responded, How do we change that?).

I’ve seen three fashion designers, one of whom specializes in plus-sizes (which I’m not, according to that lovely woman) and now I have my own buyer, who makes sure I look as thin as possible, given my large bones and elephant nature.

These people here also want to change my hairstyle—I cropped off all the red because it was unusual on Mount Olympus too (most everyone there is dark-haired, olive-skinned, and dark-eyed, except my favorite sisters, Brittany and Tiffany. Brittany’s a blonde, and stood out even more than I did, and Tiff has the dark hair and dark eyes, but her skin color is dark chocolate, which made her as odd as me and Brit).

These people here want me to get something called a perm and have “natural” curls, which will accent my face. I figure it’ll accent my “largeness” and have so far refused.

Mother also wants me to get rid of my tattoos, which are all little images of me at various ages (except the miniature roses scattered in between). Apparently, there’s a doctor who can remove these things and “not leave scars,” which I had to look up. Scars are scary. He’s not touching me. I like my tattoos, and no one can take them away.

Although they did manage to take away my diamond studs. I wore one in my nose and the other in my belly button (as well as one in each ear). Mother says they’re unladylike, and she doesn’t care that they’re in fashion. She believes I must look my best at all times, which is becoming more and more clear that I must look what she considers to be my best at all times.

I used to wear green because it accents my eyes. Now I wear this rosy-taupe color that gives my skin “some color” and “tones down” my hair. I can’t wear crop tops or low rise jeans, and heels are out of the question unless I pair them with a skirt and a loose top.

I have volunteered for prison, and I’m not sure how to get out.

Not that my previous life was much better. There, I lived on top of a mountain—actually on a cloud above the mountain, but that wasn’t immediately obvious—and couldn’t leave either. However, I could spell myself anywhere I wanted, which I most certainly cannot do here.

I bitch about that a lot. I bitch about everything a lot, but no one pays attention. Even when they do pay attention, they don’t believe me, so what’s the point of talking?

I thought nothing could make me miss my previous life, but this place does. Theoretically, it’s nice. I have a huge bed all to myself (in Olympus, Brit and Tiff often crawled in with me—usually to annoy me) and a private suite to one side, and my own bathroom, which has a dual shower that can be set with computer controls.

I spent one entire day exploring that bathroom, learning all its gadgetry. If Olympus is about magic—and it is—this place is about gadgets. Just my bathroom alone has the coolest stuff. We won’t discuss the commode (because we’re not supposed to) but, suffice to say, it has both an automatic flusher and a scentilator, which immediately clears odors from the air and adds perfume. And then there’s the mirror cabinet with its own remote control—I can make the mirror rise or turn or become a makeup mirror (it shows your pores) with the touch of a button from across the room. And the shower: the shower is heaven. Not only does it have two different heads, like I said, but they can steam or pound; make the water feel hard or soft; or add shampoo and soap if you use those settings.

Then there’s the Jacuzzi, which took me two days to figure out because I’m not asking anyone here how to do anything. But now that I have it figured, I practically live there. What else is there to do around here?

I can shop, of course. That’s expected. Besides the wardrobe I’ve had to buy, I’ve also bought Egyptian cotton high thread count sheets (because I saw them on sale), a down comforter (even if it is a warm fall for New York), and a puppy. The only thing I’ve ever had to take back was the puppy. The housekeeper informed me, followed by my stepfather, E, and my mother, that animals are not allowed in the apartment because they’ll ruin the floors.

It made me angry enough to nearly ruin the floors myself.

My younger siblings—all boys—watch TV most of the time or play games on their Xboxes or use the computers to download things that they’re not supposed to have. E is trying to get into Columbia, so he studies all the time.

We’re supposed to have dinner as a family—and we kids usually do—but Mother and Owen almost never make it. Their phone calls are predictable—usually one hour before the meal should start, one or both call to say that they’ll be late. Often, late is after bedtime.

When I first got here, we kids would sit there and stare at our food. Or, rather, I’d stare at the room. It’s pretty big, with huge windows that overlook the park. After about three days, I got tired of staring at the food so I just decided to eat, and E decided to bring some thick textbook to the table. The younger three started bringing their tablets. The three of them would stick ear buds in their ears and play games or watch whatever show they’d somehow missed the night before.

If it weren’t for the housekeeper, I wouldn’t show up at all. But she fetches me like I’m the puppy and brings me into the formal dining room to make certain I “interact” with my new family.

Yeah. Interact.

Here’s the interaction:

Day Four.

E looks at me from his specially prepared meal—apparently, he’s doing something called kosher, which I don’t completely understand—and says, “So who’s your dad?”

Like that’s appropriate dinner conversation.

Me, I’m eating roast beef with baby potatoes and some grilled asparagus. It’s not bad. The younger three have shoved their potatoes and asparagus aside and are focusing on the beef like it’s the only real food in the world.

They look up when E asks the question.

Here’s the thing about the younger three. They’re “stair-stepped”—the oldest being ten, the next nine, and the youngest eight—and they look like miniature Owens, which means they have dark hair, blue eyes, and skin that’s almost gray. (I think, in a place with real sunlight, it might be some kind of mid-level white—but here, gray. I kid you not.) The only way I can tell these three apart is by height.

The oldest—Danny—puts his elbows on the table, like he’s actually interested. So the middle one—Fabian (called Fabe, which rhymes with babe)—does the same. And the youngest, Gordon, scowls at both of them, as if they’re betraying him by paying attention to me. Which they are.

I stare them down, and they look away. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they don’t call me anything because they’re scared of me, not because they think I’m leaving soon. Or maybe they do think I’m leaving soon and they’re scared of me.

I don’t know.

E says, “Aren’t you going to tell us? I mean, your father is a mystery man.”

Mystery man. My father isn’t a mystery man. There’s been more written about my father than any other man alive. Well, that’s probably not true—but there’s certainly been more written about him than about their fathers. Combined.

“What did Mother tell you?” I ask, trying to dodge the question. One of the big rules I got before coming here is that I can’t tell anyone the truth about my father. Not because my mother is ashamed of him (although I think she is—or maybe she just doesn’t believe the magic stuff) but because the mages—the magical people I come from—don’t want the mortals (that would be E and the three siblings, as well as Owen and the staff and anyone else I come into contact with) to know about the magical universe.

I got this instruction so many times before I landed in New York that my stomach twists just thinking about it.

But E doesn’t seem to notice how twisty I am. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders. “Mother says that he’s some major Greek tycoon, like Aristotle Onassis or something.”

“I Googled that Onassis guy,” Fabe says. “He was ugly.”

“But rich,” Gordon says, like that’s a good thing.

“He’s been dead forever,” Danny says.

“He’s not my dad,” I say.

“Mother says he’s like your dad,” E says.

“Sure,” I say.

But something in my tone—maybe the dripping sarcasm—makes E set down his fork.

“Is Mother lying?” he asks. And I can’t tell from his tone whether he thinks Mother lying is a good thing, a bad thing, or something I’m supposed to deny.

“Mother has her own version of reality,” I say.

“What’s yours?” Danny asks—and there’s no mistaking his tone. Completely hostile.

“My version of reality?” I ask. “It’s a little different.”

“Spill,” Fabe says, and at first I think he means I’ve spilled my water, which I did the first night at this table, and you’d think I nearly ruined it. Legions of staff (we’re not allowed to call them servants) scurried in from the kitchen as if they’d been watching (and later, I learn they have—on closed circuit television or something like that, supposedly without sound) and wiped and polished and cleaned while one guy held my plate and asked me if I wanted to continue eating while he held it (creepy, I think) and another guy refilled my water glass.

But then I realize that Fabe wants me to talk, and yet again, I’ve encountered slang I don’t know. Before we all came to the mortal plane, Tiffany made us watch a ton of movies and TV shows so we could get the English dialects and slang just right, but I’ve found that those things are worse than useless. What slang I learned is out of date, and my accent is hopelessly tinged with an odd mixture of ancient Greek and upper-crust British, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of it.

“How does your version differ from Mother’s?” Gordon asks, his mean little eyes bugging at me.

“Mine just has a little more magic than hers,” I say.

“Huh?” E asks.

I pull my plate closer and stab some asparagus. “I’m not supposed to talk about my father.”

Which, of course, makes matters worse. Now they want to know everything, and they pressure me through the dessert course, which I’m not allowed to have because I’m “large.”

So finally, I give up and say, “Yes, my father looks like Aristotle Onassis. Only, if you want the truth, Onassis looked like my dad because my dad has been around a long, long time.”

“Onassis was really old when he died,” Gordon says in his snobby way. (I have no idea how eight-year-olds can be snobby, but this one sure is.)

“He was married to that Kennedy lady, and she was old when she died,” Danny says.

“Which is before you were born,” E says, and for all I know (and I don’t know a lot about this) it might’ve been before E was born too. I think it might have been before Mother was born, which is just weird all around.

“So how old is your dad?” Fabe asks.

I shrug. I don’t know this kind of math.

“C’mon,” E says. “You have to know how old your dad is.”

“Why?” I ask. “He doesn’t even know.”

“How can he not know?” Danny says, like I’m the one lying about it.

“Because,” I say, “he was born sometime after the world was created, but before people started measuring time.”

They all look at me like I’ve just ripped off all my clothes and thrown them out the window.

“You could just say you don’t know,” Fabe says.

“I did say that,” I say.

“Then you elaborated,” says Gordon the Snot. “You didn’t have to elaborate.”

“You asked,” I say.

“No,” Gordon says. “E asked.”

Like it’s E’s fault for being curious. His gaze meets mine and he just shakes his head.

“Some people don’t know how old they are,” he says to the other three. “Some places don’t have birth certificates, or didn’t, even in the middle of the twentieth century.”

I decide to leave it at that, but Gordon doesn’t.

“Is that true?” he asks. “Is Greece so primitive that it doesn’t have birth certificates?”

“Greece has been around a lot longer than this place, buddy,” I snap.

“So?”

“So?” I say. “So most of your culture comes from us.”

“Us?” Fabe says. He caught the personal tone in my reply.

“Yeah, us,” I say.

“I thought you’re American,” Fabe says. “Mother says so.”

“Because Crystal’s an American citizen, dummy,” Danny says. “Anyone born to an American citizen is an American.”

“Even if they don’t know where the Empire State Building is?” Gordon asks, keeping his gaze on me.

They’re never going to forget that incident. I was standing at the edge of Central Park, looking directly at the Empire State Building, and that’s when I asked where it was. How was I supposed to know it was in my line of sight? How was I supposed to know what it looked like? I was lucky just to know it existed.

“What do you care about culture?” Danny says. “You didn’t even know what Lincoln Center is.”

“Leave her alone,” E says, and I look at him gratefully. He smiles, just a little. “So your dad is really old.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then why was Mother interested?” E asks.

“He doesn’t look old,” I say and then bite my lip. That gets into the magic. Mages don’t age the same way as mortals. We do age, but only with extreme magic use, and like usual, Daddy found a way to exempt himself from that.

“How come?” Danny asks. “Plastic surgery?”

“He’s not like Mother,” I say, and there’s a collective gasp around the table. I guess we’re not supposed to talk about Mother’s too-smooth face, either.

“So how does he look young?” Gordon asks in that tone that just tells me he’s going to criticize whatever answer I give.

So I smile at him. It’s my breezy, I-don’t-care smile. “He’s magic.”

All four of them stare at me like I’ve smashed each plate on the dinner table.

“Magic?” Danny asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“You believe that?” Fabe asks.

“I know it,” I say.

“Prove it,” Gordon says.

“Look it up,” I say. Tiff used to say that to me, and I’ve been wanting to use that one on someone else for years.

“How can I look it up?” Gordon asks. “I don’t even know what your dad’s name is.”

I answer so fast that I don’t even give myself time to think about it. “It’s Zeus.”

“Zeus what?” E asks.

“Zeus,” I say, beginning to get annoyed.

“One name?” Danny asks. “Like a dog?”

“Like a god,” I say. “He’s the Zeus.”

They stare at me again, and this time, I can feel the malevolence.

“Jeez,” E finally says. “If you didn’t want to tell us about him, you could’ve just said so.”

“Yeah,” Gordon says. “It’s not nice to lie to people.”

“Or to make fun of them,” Fabe says.

I, of course, never tell them that they’ve been making fun of me. I’m outnumbered.

That was Day Four. They tried again on Day Seven, and one more time on Day Ten (and no, I don’t know if they waited three days on purpose or because that’s how long their attention span extends). I kept telling them the truth, and they kept accusing me of lying, and then they stopped talking to me altogether—except on those rare occasions when Mother or Owen came to dinner.

Then we’d discuss our days or the books we were supposed to be reading or the shopping I still needed to do to make myself presentable.

And that’s my home life. I have a life outside of the home. I’m supposed to go to school, and I do sometimes. But mostly, I shop. Because I can.

So far, it seems, that credit card doesn’t have a limit—at least that I can find.

Supposedly, that credit card is a perk of my new lifestyle. That’s what my real sisters, Brit and Tiff, say. They’re envious of the unlimited money because, they say, it’s hard to learn how to use the stuff properly.

I haven’t really learned. I just use the credit card.

I used it to get them each an iPhone, so we could talk and text whenever we wanted to. I sent the phones to them, and their mothers Freaked Out, like major big time.

Their mothers called my mother, and it got ugly. My mother hates dealing with me, and she had to after that.

So I was in trouble for being nice.

Everything gets me in trouble. Just breathing gets me in trouble. And without the iPhones or my sisters, I can’t tell anyone how I feel.

Because no one seems to care.

TWO

HERE’S THE THING that pissed off the mothers so badly (I think):

Brittany, Tiffany, and I aren’t supposed to talk to each other except on Saturday afternoons. Brittany lives in some place called the Midwest and Tiffany lives in Oregon, which I can actually find on a map. We’re supposed to stay separate, at least until the winter holidays, so that we can develop our own identities.

It’s our shrink’s idea to keep us apart. Megan—that’s our shrink—believes that we’ve spent too much time together. All three of us were born in the same week to different mothers, but of course we have the same father, and he raised us (well, he hired out the raising, but that’s a different story). We hadn’t been separated at all until this summer, and before that, we were so intertwined that we could almost hear each other’s thoughts.

Our magic—which we weren’t supposed to have at our young ages, but Daddy had broken that rule too, like he breaks so many others—had intertwined too, and when Tiff decided she wanted to follow the normal mage’s path—no magic for female mages until after menopause (!)—we had to either go along or force her to keep her magic.

If you’ve ever met Tiff, you know why forcing her was out of the question.

So Brit and I went along because that’s what we always do. If Tiff wants something, we go along. If Tiff doesn’t want it, we don’t want it either.

At the time, it didn’t seem so bad. But I’m rethinking it now.

If I’m going to be honest—and I decided I was in writing this all down—then I have to say that we were all pretty miserable in Mount Olympus. We three girls only had each other for family (and our numerous other siblings, some of whom are so old that they can’t remember when they were born either) and Daddy had actually given us a job.

The problem with the job was that it was more than full-time, and we weren’t qualified to do it. Maybe Tiff was. She’s the brains. Me and Brit, we’re just hangers-on. We kinda sorta got our revenge on Tiff by having her do all the brain work, but when I look back on it, I think we’re not quite that petty. It was just easier to let Tiff do the thinking for us, just like it was easier to let Brit do the crying for us.

I’m not sure what I did. And that, Megan says, is why we had to separate.

Everyone else says it’s because of the stupid job we had the last few years. As the Interim Fates, we were placeholders, really, while the Powers That Be decided what to do with the real Fates.

Daddy said we were the real Fates, but not even we believed that. The real Fates are these superpowerful women who scare the crap out of Daddy, which is why he maneuvered and maneuvered and maneuvered to get rid of them.

Then he was successful (and I think it surprised even him), so he gave me and Brit and Tiff the job. He could’ve given it to Artemis, Athena, and Aletheia, but he knew they’d be too smart to manipulate. Or he could’ve given it to the Horae (Diké, Eirene, and Eunomia), but, come to think of it, they’re closely tied to the real Fates and besides, Eunomia is the Goddess of Good Governance (actually, it’s one of her passions—and she’s militant about it), so she probably would’ve prevented Daddy from manipulating everything right from the get-go.

I guess if Daddy wanted daughters he could manipulate, he could’ve chosen any three out of a hundred girls, many of whom aren’t grown yet. But if he wanted three who’re as close as the Fates are to each other (and who look kinda like them), then he didn’t have a lot of choices. Most of us kids don’t know each other well because Daddy had different groups raising us.

Me and Tiff and Brit were just pretty lucky that’d we’d found each other so young. Otherwise, our lives would’ve been even more miserable.

Although this acting-Fate thing—being the Interim Fates—was hard. We thought it was an honorary title at first, and then everyone wanted us to decide stuff and we didn’t have the brains for that. Or at least, me and Brit didn’t have the brains. Tiff did, but she said she didn’t have the education.

She spent almost that whole time we were Interim Fates reading and learning and trying to teach us. She was getting mad at us all the time, and Brit was crying all the time, and I was tired of being in the middle.

I was just so mad at Daddy for putting us in that job and making us work and then abandoning us and forgetting about us because we weren’t in his way like the real Fates had been. That’s when we realized he really didn’t care what we did, as long as we didn’t stop him from doing what he wanted to do.

Then we met Megan, who is both a therapist and an empath—a real one, with a rare magical ability to pull your emotions from you (and to understand them: even rarer!)—and she caught all the animosity between us, and between Tiff and Daddy.

The animosity between us—that was what worried me. We were closer than sisters. We were almost the same person, and we’d started to hate each other just because we were together—without a break—all the time.

So when Megan showed up at the library (where we had to live—this magical library that sounds cool, but is really like a giant prison with books), we asked her to help us quit.

Or rather, I asked her.

For once, I decided something. I decided we should stand up to Daddy, even when Tiff and Brit started to worry that it was a really bad idea.

We spelled our way to Megan’s office (which took some fancy magic, let me tell you) and Daddy showed up and then Tiff let fly. She called him every name in the book, told him he wasn’t a good father, and then cited all his crimes. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

Daddy’s a bit of a bull—I mean that he looks like a bull: short and squat, with a nose that’s pushed in and extra-large nostrils. For some reason, though, adult women find him attractive. Megan says that’s because he has charisma, but if he does, his daughters are immune to it.

Daddy can actually make his eyes flash—he’s not called the thunder god for nothing—and he did that when he looked at me and Brittany when Tiff had finished her harangue.

“Is that true?” he asked me. “Am I a bad parent?”

Okay. I still remember that moment. Because for the first time in years, I had to make a decision all by myself. Did I tell my father—who had never, ever, not once in my entire life asked me a direct question before—that he sucked at parenting? Or did I betray my closest friends and my sisters by telling him what he wanted to hear?

Megan would have said—if I’d given her the chance—that I should have expressed my real opinion, but at the time, I didn’t know what my real opinion was.

My heart was pounding, and my cheeks got warm. I don’t usually blush—Tiff and Brit do—but that day, I was turning red under Daddy’s scrutiny.

“Well?” he asked in that bullish way of his. “Is she right?”

Tiff glared at me, and that was when I realized she got bullish tendencies from Daddy. Maybe that’s why we followed her, no questions asked.

“Am I a bad parent?” he repeated, louder, like I had gone deaf just because I was trying to figure out how to answer him.

“I don’t know,” I whispered—I couldn’t find my voice, even if I wanted to. It seemed to have just vanished. “This is the first conversation we’ve ever had.”

Daddy made this horrible sound, and Megan chastised him, and then he turned to Brit.

I was shaking so bad from the look he gave me after I spoke to him that I never heard what Brit said to him.

All I know is that by the end of the session, we’d shaken Daddy’s faith in himself (which, after centuries of being worshipped or followed or obeyed, was darn near impossible) and he left, vowing to interview the other two hundred children of his that he could find easily.

Leaving us with Megan. Who asked Tiff, of course, what she wanted to do.

She wanted out of Olympus, away from Daddy, and a mundane life. Megan warned Tiff that to go live with her mother, she’d have to give up her magic until she came into it naturally, and Tiff said that was fine.

Then Megan asked me and Brit what we wanted to do. Brit said it’d be nice to have some time away. I didn’t answer. I just wanted to stop being an Interim Fate. I didn’t really want to leave home, though. I had no idea what would happen to me if I did.

I’d never really been anywhere else. They both had: Tiff’s mom spent entire summers with her and actually took her to places around the world.

Brit’s mom spent as much time in Olympus as possible, usually in two-week chunks.

For most of my life, my mom came to the obligatory parents’ meeting in June and then left the minute the meeting ended. The two Junes that I was an Interim Fate, my mom didn’t show up at all. Or maybe it was a few more Junes than that. I’m not sure, because that Interim Fate interlude screwed up my sense of time.

Somehow, in that session, Megan got it into her empathic little head that we all wanted to be with our mothers. And she arranged for us to lose our magic (for the next thirty to forty years!) and head into the greater world so that we could grow up “normal.”

Or at least as normal as teenagers could be with a god for a father, hundreds of siblings, and an upbringing that doesn’t include early childhood education.

I get the sense, from our once-a-week phone calls, that Brit and Tiff are pretty happy where they’re at. Tiff’s mom is cool—I’ve met her—and Brit has been accepted into the bosom of her family (whatever that means). I’m the only one stuck here all alone with the three creatures and the master of ceremonies.

So I used my credit card to buy everybody the iPhones. I had the store send Brit and Tiff theirs, along with the family plan for all three of us, and I figured that even if we couldn’t e-mail, we could text. There was nothing in the rules that Megan gave us that said we couldn’t text.

(Except the no-contact part. Y’know. Only talk on Saturday.)

But that’s not what upset everybody.

Tiff’s mom called first and somehow managed to talk to my mom, which is a modern miracle. Tiff’s mom complained that the gift cost too much money (!), which Mother didn’t understand at all (“Why are they complaining about that?” she asked) and then told Mother that she was sending the iPhone back.

Which she did.

And so did Brit’s mom, only without the life’s-about-to-end phone call.

We had an awkward three-way phone call that Saturday, trying not to talk about what happened, and then everybody told Megan.

Everybody except me.

Here’s the other part of the deal. We each have one hour sessions with Megan every week. She flies (sometimes literally—like that transport thing in Star Trek—sometimes on a real airplane) between the locations and spends the day there. She lives in Los Angeles with this really rich, really hot guy whom she married just last year, but that doesn’t seem to sway her from her mission of saving the magical from themselves.

Or at least, saving the three of us from our father’s evil influence, whatever that means.

So in their sessions, Brit and Tiff talk about the horrors of the iPhones and when I go in every Sunday, there’s Megan waiting for me.

She’s chubby and redheaded—only with that auburn color that Mother wishes I had—and once, Megan made the mistake of saying that large women sometimes end up like her, which has made me even more paranoid about dessert.

Until we had to leave Olympus, I kinda liked Megan. She was the first woman I ever met who didn’t wear any perfume at all (although she does use this vanilla soap that’s real faint, but in her personal spaces, like the office, does linger in the air).

So every week, I go into Megan’s office, and she opens the door to the therapy room, and I sit down on the couch while she sits in this big brown chair. This week’s no different.

The first question she asks me is the first question she’s asked now every week since I moved to New York:

“Is your mother with you?”

I shake my head. The agreement is that Mother comes too so that she can handle a formerly magical child (the other mothers do this as well) and help with the transition. Mother came to the first session, deemed it beneath her, and has refused to come since.

Only in typical Mother fashion, she hasn’t really refused so much as scheduled a conflicting—and more important (she says)—appointment at the same time.

Megan’s office here—which she owns (apparently she owns one in Oregon too and another in the mysterious Midwest)—is in the West Fifties, in one of the lovely old buildings that has been restored to a kind of former glory. The office itself is small—only three rooms: a reception area, Megan’s office proper, and a group therapy room, which she hasn’t used here yet—but it’s pretty. Very feminine—lots of plants and delicate art depicting mothers and children and everything’s in rich browns and mauves and warm shades.

I do feel comfortable here, which I refuse to tell her, although she suspects it. Or maybe she knows it, being an empath and all.

“You have to tell your mother that this is important,” Megan says.

“Yeah, I will,” I say. “Next time I see her.”

“You said that last week.”

I shrug as I thump into the oversized chair she has for clients. “I haven’t seen her.”

The past few sessions when I say that Megan says, Don’t be flip, Crystal, but this time she peers at me, and I wonder if she’s using that empathy crap on me.

“You really haven’t seen her, have you?” Megan asks.

And when she uses that empathy thing, it sorta pulls answers out of you. I don’t know how to describe it except that it’s like an ache in your brain, and then you’ve answered even before you realize you’ve opened your mouth.

“I saw her when she confronted me about the iPhones,” I say and mentally curse myself. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t say anything about the iPhones.

“She actually confronted you?” Megan asks, which suggests she knows about the iPhone incident from somebody else.

I sigh. “Confronted” is a nice word. It actually implies caring, although whether that caring is about status or someone’s well-being is hard to determine.

Mother didn’t really confront me. She just sort of confirmed: Did you send your sisters iPhones? Yes, I said contritely. Well, you’re not supposed to have contact, so don’t do anything like that again. And then she went back to whatever she’d been doing when Tiff’s mom forced her to the phone.

Megan shakes her head, apparently understanding the answer even before I give it. “She did talk to you about it, right?”

I shrug.

Megan’s mouth becomes a thin line. “Your mother has to come here,” she says. “Or I’m going to get help forcing her here.”

“You don’t force my mother to do anything,” I say, and that’s pretty true. You don’t force Mother and you don’t force Daddy. You just let them be what they are: forces of nature all on their own.

“You do understand why Tiffany’s mother and Brittany’s mother don’t want the iPhones,” Megan says.

“Because they say they can’t afford them,” I say, “which is bull since I’m paying for everything.”

Megan runs a hand through that auburn hair. If I still had my magic, I could make my hair auburn for a day. I asked my stylist here in New York if she could use some of that dye stuff to make my hair auburn and she laughed. “You’d go even redder. Or maybe a Bozo-the-Clown orange.”

Which I took to be a no.

“You’re not supposed to have contact,” Megan says, “except on Saturdays.”

“Well,” I snap. “I don’t like that.”

“Why not?” Megan asks, like it’s a reasonable question. How would she like it if someone forbade her from contacting the only people in the world she ever spent time with? She’d hate it too.

She’s watching me with that intense look, and if I’m not careful, she’ll pull an answer from me.

“Crystal?” she asks. “Tell me why you don’t like it.”

And before I can squeeze my lips shut, they’ve already flapped. “Who the hell am I supposed to talk to? Nobody here even knows my name.”

“Now that’s probably an exaggeration,” Megan says.

“Wave your arm,” I say. “Use some real magic. Bring the three monsters in here or good ole EEEEE. See if they know what my name really is.”

She gives me that look again, and I can tell she’s probing me to see if I’m lying.

“Is it that bad?” she asks.

“It’s worse,” I say.

“What about school?” she asks.

“What about it?”

“Do you have any friends there?”

And I sigh. Friends. Yeah, actually, I have friends.

But I can’t talk to them either.

THREE

I DON’T TALK to Megan about my friends. I don’t talk to anyone about my friends. I feel like my friends are mine.

Megan stares at me from her big brown chair. The plants curl around her as if they like her better than me. Her hands rest on the chair’s arms, and she looks at me with those bright green eyes.

I can feel the pull, but I won’t tell her anything.

Or, at least, I’m going to try not to.

I’ve managed to keep quiet about my friends so far. I didn’t even tell Megan what school’s been like.

On the first day, I made a lot of friends. On the second day, I found out that most of them wanted to know me because my stepfather is Owen Wright, one of the richest men in Manhattan, which is, apparently, saying something.

By day three, I’d weeded out the dweebs and morons and hangers-on and kept the most useful of the so-called friends: Melanie, Veronica, and Agatha.

Melanie is the daughter of one of the richest women in the world—not just in Manhattan. Melanie has been to boarding schools all over Europe and finally begged to come home to New York to spend time with her family. Time there, apparently, is a lot like my time with mine. She doesn’t believe in being disappointed. She believes in getting even.

The nice thing about Melanie is that she doesn’t think my accent is weird. She has a bit of one herself. She’s tiny and black-haired and manages to make her school uniform look like a fashion statement. (I have no idea how she does that since we have to wear lovely plaid skirts that go to our knees, socks that rise to our knees, horrible black shoes that look like they belong on “staff,” and white shirts that never manage to stay white, but somehow, she always looks better than the rest of us.)

Veronica does think my accent is weird, but Veronica works hard at being perfect. She’s blonde—although not a natural blonde (learned that in gym; wouldn’t’ve noticed if she hadn’t asked one day in the shower if she should dye her pubes or shave them)—and she’s about ten pounds lighter than she should be. Only she doesn’t diet. Dieting, she says, is for idiots—you only regain the pounds. Instead, she exercises like a fiend. If she doesn’t get in three hours a day, she considers the day wasted.

Her uniform hangs on her, but it doesn’t matter because her hair is so spectacular it’s like its own art form. It’s long and she wears it differently every day—up or in ponytails or teased or curled. Now that I don’t have magic, I realize just how much work this is, and I am very, very impressed. She also manages to wear makeup even though we’re forbidden that too, and it’s so perfect it enhances her lovely skin and dark brown eyes instead of drawing attention to itself.

Oddly, Veronica’s family isn’t rich. She’s a scholarship student, but she pretends like she’s got money. She gets some extra money by selling things, which Agatha doesn’t approve of. Mostly, though, Melanie helps—Veronica was her project early on, until it became clear that Veronica doesn’t need help with anything, and they manage to run most everything around the school—or they would if they cared enough.

Mostly, they let Agatha do it. Agatha has dirty brown hair that curls all around her face, skin that’s a light tan, and soft blue eyes. Her father is one of the most influential politicians in the city, which is as far as I understand since this political system is beyond me. She doesn’t have much money either, but she has clout, and if she wants something done, it gets done, even with the teachers.

Agatha cares, and she thinks we should care too. Every now and then, Melanie and Veronica help her with some project, and she helps them with whatever they need around the school. She thinks I should get super-involved in school politics to “fill the void” left by my family, but I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.

I can barely wrap my head around the schedule, which seems needlessly complex—in one room during one hour; another room the next. It seems to me the teachers should rotate, not the students, but everyone laughed when I asked why that wasn’t happening.

And the subject matter, holy temple of doom! The subject matter makes the schedule look easy. I spent a month preparing to come here in private study with Athena back in Olympus, and nothing she taught me, I mean nothing, got me ready for this stuff. (Except math. Turns out I’m good at math. In fact, I’m better than everyone else my age at math. Who knew?)

Fortunately for me, Melanie, Veronica, and Agatha have taught me how to game the system. As Veronica says, “If you can’t do it, pretend.” So I do. Melanie showed me how to get the teachers to mark me present (half our grades) and Agatha has promised to help on mid-terms, whatever they are. All three introduced me to the good students who write papers for a fee, and since I have the world’s most unlimited credit card, buying papers isn’t hard.

Agatha did point out that I wouldn’t really be getting an education—someone else would be learning the stuff I’m supposed to learn—but I don’t care. Someone else has always learned the stuff I’m supposed to learn. First it was Tiff, now it’s these nameless girls who write for money.

I am learning that money in this New York world works pretty much the same as magic. You can get whatever you want if you pay for it. The only difference is that you don’t get it as quickly in New York and you can’t actually make people disappear. As in vanish. Not as in buried in concrete boots in the Hudson.

Melanie, Veronica, and Agatha came up with the iPhone idea after I explained about my sisters. M, V, & A all think that not being allowed to talk to my sisters is wrong, and I should do whatever I can to game the system. iPhones, as Melanie pointed out, do ninety percent of it.

The fact that this little game didn’t work because of the other two mothers posed a problem none of us expected. But when I told M, V, & A about it at school, they shrugged as if it was no big deal and Melanie said, “So you failed once. Try again.”

“You just have to be smarter than the average bear,” Veronica said, which I know is slang, but not slang I understand (entirely, anyway. I get it; just don’t know why bears are relevant).

“The key to winning,” Agatha said, “is dusting yourself off and finding a better way.”

They promised me they’d help me find a better way to communicate with my sisters. We’re supposed to work on it all week.

Of course, I say nothing about Melanie, Veronica, or Agatha to Megan. I haven’t moved on her couch because I’m trying to mimic her expression. We both have green eyes, and I wonder whether, if I concentrate hard enough, mine can pull information out of her head like she pulls information out of mine.

She’s staring at me like she’s heard my entire mental digression—and no matter how it seems, I know that empaths are not psychics. She can’t hear my thoughts, just feel my emotions.

“I assume your friends know who you are,” Megan says, bringing me back to the conversation at hand.

She’s the one who brought up friends, and I’ve been taking my time answering. Because I don’t want to talk to her at all.

“Of course my friends don’t know who I am,” I say. “Do you really think I should tell them I’m a daughter of Zeus, forced to give up her magic because her favorite sister is pissed at the world?”

“Is that why you gave up your magic?” Megan asks. God, I hate it when she does that. I’m saying one thing, and she twists it into something else.

That’s how I get off balance, and I can’t be off balance if I want to keep things private.

“Did anyone consult me about giving up magic?” I ask in return.

“Yes.” Megan doesn’t even sound flapped. I wanted to make her sound flapped, and I can’t seem to do it. I try every single stupid session.

“We did ask you,” she says. “We asked you and Brittany what you wanted. And you were the one who first said that none of you wanted to be Interim Fates anymore.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted to give up my magic,” I say.

“But that was a condition, and you three girls agreed to it.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I ask. “Be different? Make it harder for them?”

Megan leans back in her chair as if she hasn’t contemplated this. Or maybe she just doesn’t know how I feel. Maybe I give her too much credit.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s the point of this exercise.”

She discusses my life like it’s an exercise. It’s a life, and it’s hard, and I’m not getting any credit for that.

She says, “You’re supposed to develop your own identity.”

“I had an identity,” I say. “I was an Interim Fate.”

“That’s not an identity,” Megan says. “That was a job.”

And she doesn’t add, because she’s nice, that I sucked at that job. But I miss it. I even miss the damn library filled with all the magic books (and the faint scent of dog pee, because a familiar got scared one day, and we had no idea how to clean properly [or even magically]).

“Do you remember what you and I discussed in our very first session?” Megan asks. “Remember how we said you would have a choice between becoming a crazy powerful mage—”

“With emphasis on the word crazy,” I say mockingly. “I know.”

She nods toward me. “Or,” she adds, clearly not willing to let it go, “you could learn how to be a good person who also has magic.”

“I have no idea how keeping my magic now will make me crazy,” I say. “Living here is making me crazy. And it wasn’t my decision.”

Megan frowns. “How come you didn’t stand up for yourself when we first brought this up?”

“Against you and Tiff?” I say. “Like I can do that.”

“You don’t know unless you try,” Megan says.

I cross my arms and look down.

“You’re mad at me,” Megan says.

That’s one of the most annoying parts of being around an empath. She has to communicate your emotions to you, but the effect is that she’s stating the obvious, and when I’m mad, all it does is piss me off more.

“So yell at me,” she says.

I shake my head.

“Why won’t you?” she asks.

“Because what’s the point?” I snap. “My magic’s gone, I’m here, I’m making the best of it.”

“Is that what you’ve always done?” Megan asks. “Make the best of it?”

There she goes, stating the obvious again. I have gone along my entire life, and when I can’t go along, I pretend. When Veronica told me to pretend I was learning in school, she jumped right into my wheelhouse.

I’m great at pretend.

“What do you think?” I say to Megan. I’m not succumbing to her verbal tricks anymore. It doesn’t get us anywhere.

It doesn’t get me anywhere.

“I think you have a right to be angry,” Megan says and I feel my heart leap. Maybe she does understand. Maybe she gets what I’m trying to tell her…

And then she goes and wrecks it by adding, “If, of course, what you’re saying isn’t revisionism. I mean, it can’t be pleasant at your mother’s apartment if no one there talks to you.”

And I sink deeper into the anger. Revisionism. Yeah, I make all of this up. All the damn time. Because it makes me feel better.

“You can yell at me, you know,” Megan says.

“What good’ll it do me?” I ask. “Will you send me home?”

“Where’s home?” she asks, and I feel my mouth open in surprise. What the hell does that mean, where’s home? Home is Mount Olympus, where she took me from. Where I got banished from.

“That’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked,” I say.

“I need you to answer,” she says calmly, as if I haven’t just challenged her.

“You know where home is,” I say. “You took me away from there.”

“You still haven’t answered me,” she says. By the Powers, she’s stubborn.

“What’s the question?” I ask in the same snotty tone Gordon uses. I learned something from him, obviously.

“Where’s home?”

“Why don’t you know that?” I ask, raising my voice. She’s being deliberately obtuse (which is one of Tiff’s favorite words, but I mean, really, what the heck? Megan knows where I lived before everything changed).

I clench my fists. Megan watches and I swear there’s a small smile on her face. Plus, she can feel my emotions, even if I try to hide them, and I hate that. I think I’m beginning to hate her.

Then I start wondering if I’m just doing what she wants. She’s pushing me to get mad, so I’m getting mad. Does that mean I’m really mad or does that mean I’m getting mad because she wants me to get mad?

I let out a breath. I’m just confusing myself. I unclench my fists, even though it’s hard. Yes, I’m mad. But she wants me to yell, so she can lecture me on being out of control.

I hate being out of control.

“My rules in this room are simple,” Megan says (and something in her tone tells me she’s told me this before, and I wasn’t paying attention or maybe I’m just paranoid or maybe she’s just as damn snotty as Gordon. I don’t know). “My rules are that I don’t make any assumptions. I know what you tell me and nothing more. If I ask a question, it’s because I want you to be specific.”

Oh, it sounds so reasonable. Be specific, be specific. I take another deep breath, and Megan watches. I hate that she can feel everything. It’s not fair.

But I’m not going to yell at her about that.

I’m going to be frickin’ specific.

“Home is pretty damn obvious,” I say, and she doesn’t yell at me for swearing, like the au pairs do or like Mother does when she’s around. “Home is Mount Olympus.”

I want to add you stupid idiot, but I don’t, because that would be rude. Besides, it would make me seem like I’m out of control. It seems like everything will make me seem out of control.

(Megan would ask, What’s wrong with being out of control? And I’d say, Nothing, if you want to be Brit or Dionysus or someone, which I don’t. I don’t like the way they take over a room with their stupid moods and their crazy behavior. Especially Dionysus, who always blames it on what he ate or what he drank.)

Megan’s green eyes seem even sharper than they had a minute ago. I swear, I’m going to contact Athena if I can figure out how and ask about empaths. Because it seems like Megan’s doing more than reading my emotions. It seems like she’s reading my mind.

“What part of Mount Olympus is home?” she asks.

“All of it.” I raise my voice even more. “All of it, don’t you get it?”

“The entire community?” she asks, as if she’s surprised.

“Yes,” I say. “And the palaces and the dogs and the stupid statues and that horrid library, all of it.”

“But not the people.”

“You asked about the community,” I say. “Isn’t a community people?”

She gives me a little teeny smile. “I guess it is. My mistake. So, you miss your siblings—”

“I told you that,” I snap.

“—all of your siblings?” she asks.

“I don’t know all of them. I don’t even know how many there are. I mean, I didn’t know the four I had here before this summer, and my dad has hundreds, literally, some of whom have completely stopped communicating with everyone at home.”

Megan nods. “You’re right. Now I’m not being specific. Do you miss all of the siblings you’ve interacted with? Athena as well as Tiffany and Brittany? Hermes? Pan? Persephone?”

“Yes,” I say. Even if they’re annoying in person, I miss that. I really, really miss that.

My eyes start filling with tears, and that pisses me off more than anything.

No. Wait. The fact that Megan would know that my eyes are filling with tears even if I turn away from her pisses me off even more.

I don’t like Megan, I really don’t. I don’t like how she makes me feel. I don’t like how she pushes, and I don’t like that she makes me angry.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

Veronica tells me that her shrink always asks “What are you feeling?” and some of the other girls with shrinks agree that feeling is the word shrinks usually use, not thinking. But Megan knows what I’m feeling, and not what I’m thinking, and thinking is the only thing that I can keep (somewhat) private.

“It’s none of your damn business,” I say, then realize how childish that sounds.

“Crystal, when you’re in this room, your business is my business.”

“And you won’t tell anyone what I say and blah, blah, blah.” I stand up. “I don’t care. I really don’t.”

Tears are running down my face, but maybe if I don’t wipe them off, she won’t notice.

“I miss my family. All of my family. I miss my home. I miss my room. I miss my sisters. I miss my life. And I left it because of you.”

She hasn’t stood up, so I’m looming over her, but she doesn’t seem freaked out about that. Most people hate it when someone stands over them.

She just folds her hands over her round little tummy and says, “You agreed to leave. You thought it was a good idea.”

“I did not,” I say. “I didn’t want to go.”

“You said you did.” Megan is so calm. I hate that she’s so calm. She should be mad too. “All I can go on is what you say—”

“In this stupid room, I know,” I say. “But I wasn’t in this room. I was in Lost Angeles with Tiff and Brit and Daddy and you, and everyone wanted me to leave and live with Mother, except me, and I thought, how bad can it be—and you have no idea!”

“You’re right,” Megan says. “I have no idea. Why don’t you sit down and tell me?”

“That they hate me? That my little brothers make fun of me? That I don’t understand this place? That I want to go home? What else can I tell you? I don’t want to be here.”

She sighs ever so softly, and says, “You promised you’d stay until the winter holidays.”

“And then what?” I’m yelling now. I hope that makes her happy. It doesn’t make me happy, but I don’t know how to stop. So I start walking the length of the little room, and it takes all of my strength to keep my thumbs hooked on the pockets of my jeans. Because if my thumbs aren’t hooked, then I’ll slap those stupid plants to the floor and kick the pots.

“Then we can talk—”

“I’m already out of magic,” I say. “I didn’t want that either. And you all are going to make me wait to get it back until I’m really old. Older than Mother is now. That’s just not fair.”

And in my head, I hear Danny’s voice, mimicking Owen, Fair is in July—whatever that means. Half the stuff in this town means nothing to me and the other half is just plain confusing.

Megan sighs really loud this time. “I know you’re unhappy—”

“Unhappy?” I ask. “Unhappy? Try miserable. I didn’t agree to this. Fix it.”

“I can’t,” she says. “You gave your word you would try this. That binds you. It’s only a few months, and then we all get together and talk, and I would hope that this time you speak up—”

“A few months.” I run my hand through my hair. It’s so full of gel that the strands stick together, and I wish I hadn’t done that. I almost—almost—slap a pot to the ground, but part of my brain knows better. “I don’t know if I’ll make it a few months.”

“You’re strong, Crystal,” Megan says. “You’ll make it. Let’s see what we can do to get your mother to come—”

“She’s never coming,” I say. “She hates anything to do with me. She thinks talking about feelings is stupid.”

Megan opens her mouth, and I know what she’s going to say, and if she says it, I’ll throw one of the plants at her, I will.

And as I have that thought, she closes her mouth, and nods, like some queen beckoning me to continue.

“And she thinks you’re stupid and she thinks anything to do with Daddy is stupid and she’s decided magic doesn’t exist even though someday she’ll be magical, and she’s also decided that every time she goes to Mount Olympus someone drugs her and lies to her or hypnotizes her so there’s no talking to her, besides, she’s like this Really Important Person who doesn’t have time for her real kids, let alone me, and—”

“Her real kids?” Megan asks. She would jump on that, because it’s the least important thing I said.

“Ethan and Danny and Fabian and Gordon. Her real kids. Me, I’m just the mistake,” I say, and as I do, I calm down just a little. Facts are calming, even if they’re ugly facts.

“She’s said that to you?” Megan actually sounds shocked.

“And everyone else,” I say. “Hasn’t she said it to you?”

Megan shakes her head. “I’ll call her. I’ll get her here next week.”

“Yeah, right,” I say. “There’s a better chance of sending me home than there is of you seeing Mother again. Tell you what. You get her to come here and have a session, and then I’ll come back, okay?”

“No,” Megan says. “You gave your word that you would do this every week. It’s one of the things all three of you agreed to. You have a lot to work out—”

“And our mothers agreed too, didn’t they?” I ask. “And part of what we’re supposed to do is work with them. Well, if I’m not worth working with, then I don’t need to be the only one doing the work. I—”

“You’re not,” Megan says, and now she stands up. She’s giving off her I think we should hug vibe. I ignore it. “I agreed to work with you too.”

“Whoopee ding,” I say. “You just judge me and ask stupid questions. You’re not working with me. No one is working with me. I’m done.”

“Crystal—”

I raise my hands so she doesn’t have to keep talking to me anymore. I back away, and then I walk from the room with as much dignity as I can manage.

Megan just makes me miserable, and Mother’s not trying, and I can’t talk to Tiff and Brit, and I can’t go home, so why should I even play this game anymore? If no one else is trying, why should I?

I slam my way out of the office, then take the stairs because the elevator will make me feel like I’m in a cage.

I burst onto the street filled with honking and people walking by and construction noise. Nobody cares here either. One guy in a suit gives me a startled look, then walks around me, but no one else looks at all.

I take a deep breath. The air tastes like exhaust and burned coffee, nothing like the fresh air from home.

Where I can’t go for months and months.

I’m on my own.

I just have to figure out what I want to do next.

FOUR

I WALK DOWN the streets of New York. The buildings tower over me, and cars zoom by. People stream in clumps from one traffic light to the next.

I learned traffic first, then lights, then how to negotiate all of it—the people, the cars, the sheer noise. I can’t tune it out, although Veronica says I will after a while, but I don’t have to pay attention to every shout, every honk, every banging door any more.

I keep my chin up and don’t make eye contact, weaving around people like they’re moving statutes.

I have a credit card. I could just get a hotel room, or I could figure out how airplanes work and fly to Tiff or Brit and hang out there, maybe move in with one of them. (Oh, yeah, that would work. Because they’d just call Megan, or their moms would throw me out or something, because we all gave our words, like that means something.)

I walk past the big complex that’s Lincoln Center, with the confusing traffic circle and the subway entrance right in the middle of all of that, and think of giving it all the finger (because Agatha says that’s a New York thing to do, giving everything and everyone you want to diss the finger), but I don’t. It’s not Lincoln Center’s fault that it’s become a thing for me.

It’s my brothers’ fault for making fun of me because I don’t know New York landmarks. My half brothers. No one in my family is a full anything. My half brothers have full siblings, but I don’t. I’m the product of a one-night stand (or maybe a one-week fling—Mother won’t tell me, exactly, and Daddy can’t remember), and the only way Mother knew I was Daddy’s girl was the magic that sparked from my fingers in the delivery room itself.

Daddy showed up right after that. I had apparently tried to turn the entire delivery room into a womb (Hey! Daddy had famously said [at least according to Mother]. Smart kid. She knows what she wants.) Mother was anxious and terrified and not willing to raise a magical daughter on her own, particularly since back then, E’s father was making noises about revisiting custody, and so Mother just gave me to Daddy without asking many questions.

Daddy, apparently, had to insist that Mother visit me every year so I would get to know the mortal side of my family. At least, that’s the story he told Megan. Mother has no idea. She just knew that visiting Greece—well, Mount Olympus—once a year was the requirement of getting me out of her daily life, so she jumped at it.

I feel sick. My stomach aches and my shoulders feel like rocks. All the road grit and crap in the air make my eyes tear up. At least, that’s what I would tell someone if someone was walking with me. But the only people walking with me are the ones I’m carrying in my imagination.

I stop by the big statue of some guy named Columbus as cars drive in circles around me. My heart always pounds here, because it feels very modern and confusing and dangerous, traffic going in circles, and people trying to get to the subway entrance and people trying to cross.

I know if I can get into Central Park, the noise will ease (a little) and I’ll calm down just a bit, but I hate standing here, surrounded by the traffic, which almost seems like those monsters my family fought in the stupid myths everyone tells about them. I’ll take a minotaur any day over traffic roaring around a circle, with more traffic behind me.

It’s not that far from the circle to the park entrance, but it always feels scary to me. Maybe because the city is weirdly open here—with lots of choices. You can go to the building with the globe in front of it (some famous guy’s hotel) or you can go to the TV studio for CNN (which I’d even heard of before I got here) or you can go to some apartments or other tall buildings that E tried to explain to me once. And then there’s Lincoln Center, the Center of All Culture according to Danny, and across from it all Central Park, which I had heard of before I got to New York; I just didn’t know what it was.

And I didn’t know how it was the only place I’d feel halfway comfortable. If I could get across traffic.

The light changes and I sprint, because I don’t want to be near those cars ever, and I stop near this gigandous monument, which I kinda love, maybe because it reminds me of home.

You see, I’m the one who told E that the gold creatures pulling the seashell chariot on the top of the monument (which we had to stand waaaaaaay back to look at) were hippocampi. He’d never heard of them. Danny looked them up on his phone and said, as snotty as Gordon could be, Why don’t you just call them seahorses? Jeez. But they’re not seahorses. They’re Greek. The statues aren’t of my family—there’s someone called Columbia and someone called Peace—but they look like they’re of my family, like the stuff you see in Greece (the real Greece) all the time. Except for the big tall brick-like box thing.

Still, I look at the Maine memorial as a little bit of home, although I think if you need a memorial to a ship in the middle of the city, the memorial should have my uncle Poseidon riding through it somewhere.

I go to a nearby food cart and get a knish. I’ve fallen in love with the food in this city, which is a problem, considering how Mother wants me to control everything I eat. But as I get ready to pay for the knish—which is spinach, because it, y’know, pretends at healthy—I realize I don’t have to care what Mother thinks. I order a potato knish too, and I take them, plus a bottle of water, to a bench across from the monument.

I sit a little sideways, so I’m looking at mostly monument instead of mostly traffic. The park’s behind me, and the air smells of falling leaves. It’s not really fall yet, but it will be soon, and everyone’s warning me that it’ll get really cold here in the winter, too cold for my Mediterranean blood.

Maybe I won’t be here in the winter. Maybe I’ll be somewhere else.

I’m trapped here, but if Mother’s not following the rules, I don’t have to either. I mean, what’s Megan going to do to me? Empath me to death? Her magic doesn’t have lightning bolts or big magic tricks or anything. She can’t hurt me.

No one can, not with magic. Not here.

Ignorance might hurt me, though. I really don’t know this place.

I bite into the potato knish. The potatoes and onions steam out of the fried dough, and some fall on my jeans. Instead of brushing the food off like I was taught by one of the au pairs, I eat it, then wipe my hands on the napkin that came in the greasy little bag the street vendor had given me.

New York’s not that bad if I have to hole up somewhere. There’s a million great hotels, and no one would have to know why I was there. I wouldn’t have to go to school, and—

I shiver. If I don’t go to school, what would I do? I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. I actually am making a place at school. I’ve got friends, even if they aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy, and they can’t finish my sentences like Tiff and Brit. My friends are at least helpful, and they’ve done more to keep me alive in this city than anyone at my mother’s house.

I look over at the hotel with the globe. The hotel’s name is emblazoned across the front. For a long time, I thought the “trump” in the name was bragging. Like, you’ve trumped someone else for being in that hotel. I said that to Melanie and she laughed at me and corrected me, telling me the hotel is owned by some guy named Trump and he puts his name on everything, and it is kinda like bragging and trumping only really déclassé. I actually had to look up that word on my phone, and I decided I liked it. I could achieve a really snotty tone, and say everyone was déclassé.

That hotel is supposed to be really fancy. All of the hotels around the park are. There are good hotels in Manhattan and “fleabags” according to Veronica, which I guess have fleas or something. The fleabags are dangerous and cheap and for tourists only. I know there are hotel sites on the web where I could look all this stuff up, because I’ve seen them advertised. (I’ve been watching too much TV, and Tiff is wrong: you don’t learn everything from TV, just enough to get by, kinda.)

Maybe I won’t go home. Maybe I’ll just march over to Trump whatever and give them my credit card and run up a big bill. I imagine it for a minute, going home every night to some fancy room…with a TV and room service…and it wouldn’t be that different from the apartment, except it wouldn’t have the staff and the stupid boys.

I sigh. I’d be even lonelier in the hotel.

I finish the first knish and am too full to start the second. But I want it, and Mother would hate it if I get fatter, and to hell with her, and I eat it, licking my fingers when I’m done. I feel a little queasy, but I also feel triumphant.

I have a really nice room and some friends, and I have to stay here until we all meet for the winter holidays. I know Tiff and Brit would be mad at me if I show up at their places, and their mothers would have fits if I sent plane tickets or something to some other city where we could all meet. I mean, if the mothers got mad at iPhones, imagine how they’d feel about paid vacations?

I could run away all on my own, like those heroines in the movies, the ones who seem stronger because they have adventures. I could take my magic credit card, and go all over the country, and do good or just see how different America is in real life than it is on TV.

Mother would be fried—at least, once someone told her I ran away. She’d probably be relieved too. It would be the excuse she needed to disown me.

And when she disowned me, she’d cut off my magic credit card.

I let out a breath of knishy air. I have a room, I have friends sort of, and I have unlimited money.

If I don’t try to impress Mother and if I ignore Megan, I might be able to stick it out until the winter holidays.

That feels like a real decision, one I’ve made all on my own, maybe for the first time in my life.

And instead of feeling good, it feels…scary. My heart’s pounding like I’ve run a race or something, and I want to look over my shoulder to see if someone was watching me while I was sitting here thinking.

Or if someone has read my mind—or my emotions.

I glance around looking for Megan, but she didn’t follow me to the park. Which is good, because I’d’ve given her what-for if she had.

She’s not part of my life anymore.

I’m just going to hang on and pretend to be the perfect daughter at Mother’s (whatever that means), the perfect student at school (if I can), and the perfect friend to M, V, & A.

I’ll do what I have to do to survive.

FIVE

MY RESOLVE MAKES it all the way to dinner. Which, Tiff would say, was longer than she would have expected.

Me, I expected to stay resolved for the rest of my life. Brit would probably have said (nicely, because Brit’s usually nice) that my expectations of myself are always unrealistic.

Megan would’ve added that I let my sisters define me, even when they’re not here. And then I have to remind myself that I’m not going to think about Megan ever again.

Dinner’s at eight, which, E says, is the title of some old song. Occasionally Fabe sings part of it, because he thinks waiting until eight is really stupid, particularly when Mother and Owen fail to show up.

Rumors of their appearance at dinner tonight started at 5 p.m., but we’re never confident they’ll arrive until they actually take their places at the head and foot of the table. (Sometimes they even argue about who’s at the head and who’s at the foot.)

I’ve cadged a seat in the formal dining room that lets me stare out the windows, even when the sun is setting. It makes the buildings gold for a few minutes before the city goes dark—or dark-ish, because the artificial lights keep it constantly lighter than any other place I’ve ever lived. (Make that Mount Olympus.)

Tonight, the artificial lights are up already. Because we’re in a penthouse, we can keep the windows uncovered if we want to. One clue that Mother and Owen will actually show is that the staff is using the remotes to darken the windows so no one—no bird, no helicopter, no drone, no person with binoculars in another penthouse across the way—can look in.

Danny says that’s to prevent paparazzi (a word I learned week one) from photographing us, but E says it’s really to prevent some sniper from taking out Owen. I think both of them are fanciful. I grew up with really famous people, and no one tried to kill them.

Okay, not entirely true. If you look closely at my family’s history, you’ll see that they’re constantly trying to kill each other. But the key phrase is “each other.” I have a lot of family: more, Brit says, than the population of that Midwestern town where she lives.

Of course, we’ll get a bad apple or two. (And my sisters would’ve giggled at that, since the Trojan War started when another of our sisters, Eris, tossed a golden apple on a family dinner table and said it was for the fairest. They don’t call Eris the Goddess of Discord for nothing. Megan’s been worried that we’d end up as nasty as Eris is. The Fates had to deal with her long before we became Interim Fates. But that’s another story.)

When the housekeeper expects Mother to show for dinner, she makes us dress up. Or at least not wear blue jeans. Since the jeans I’ve been wearing today have a fried-onion-and-potato stain, I don’t mind changing.

I put on an unapproved forest green skirt with an ivory top, and some gold bangles that Athena gave me before I left. I’m not going to tell anyone that I’ve checked out mentally, but I am going to rebel just a little.

And, if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m also testing Mother. I want to see if she notices that I’m wearing my favorite colors, not hers.

When I get to the table, E’s sitting in his usual spot. Normally, he has a thick textbook or some kind of dedicated ereader, but tonight, he has nothing. His mouth is in a tense line, his thin face looks worried.

Danny, Fabe, and Gordon haven’t shown up yet. I sit in my usual spot and look first at the head of the table, then at the foot.

“You think they’ll show?” Even though I’ve decided to become my own person, I don’t want Mother to hear me gossiping about her.

“They’re already here,” E says. “Dinner might be delayed.”

I frown, about to ask him why, when Mother’s voice carries across the large room.

“There you are,” she says. I turn toward her, expecting her to be looking at the three younger boys, but she’s staring at me as if I’ve been missing instead of watching television in my room for the past three hours.

Mother’s stares are pretty powerful. She has emerald green eyes and a narrow chin. The plastic surgery she indulged in makes her cheeks shiny and the space under her eyes flat instead of slightly concave like everyone else’s. Sometimes she Botoxes, but not today, because she has a hefty frown marring her otherwise perfect features.

She sweeps a hand toward me. “You. Crystal. With me.”

Then she turns, her black silk tunic rustling. My stomach clenches, and I wonder if she heard what I said to E. Then I wonder if she disapproves of my clothes. And finally, I wonder if she already knows that I’m not going to be the dutiful daughter anymore.

E raises his eyebrows, and I suddenly realize he’d been waiting for me. He wanted to warn me about Mother. Of all the brothers, E’s been the kindest (which isn’t saying much).

Good luck, he mouths.

I nod, grateful for even that little bit of support.

I slide my chair back and follow Mother. She’s wearing sling-back shoes that click on the wooden floor as she heads toward a part of the apartment I’ve never seen.

E calls it the parental suite. I have no idea if that’s its real name or if only he calls it that. But the suite is in its own wing. Mother has to open a door to go inside.

The suite smells of clashing perfumes. Mother’s Clive Christian No. 1 doesn’t really go with Owen’s Eau d’Hadrien. His is all citrusy and hers is all bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla, which makes me want to sneeze. You’d think citrus would lose with those stronger scents, but it only makes the urge to sneeze worse.

I did sneeze the first time I encountered this clash, and Mother yelled at me as if I had some kind of problem. Apparently, I shouldn’t have a bad reaction to two of the most expensive scents in the world.

I try not to sneeze now, but it’s taking some work. My eyes are watering and I have to rub the tip of my nose. I hope Mother gets me out of the long, narrow, dark hallway and into one of the side rooms before I actually have a reaction. I can only hope that the side room smells of one perfume or the other, not both.

She opens a door five down and stands aside so I can enter. The room is very feminine, done in golds and deep reds, the colors she wants me to wear. I know the rug on the hardwood floor is expensive, because everything in this place is expensive, but I have no idea how expensive until Mother takes off her shoes and looks pointedly at my feet.

Hers are bare, but she’s had a pedicure recently. I had one pedicure shortly after I arrived in Manhattan, and vowed never to have another. I just figured I wouldn’t take off my shoes in front of people ever again, but clearly that’s not going to work.

I slide my shoes off. Mother looks at my feet, frowns, and shakes her head. She closes the door, and I heave a sigh of relief. The only perfume I smell in here is Mother’s, and it’s faint. Either she doesn’t use this room very often or she uses it late enough in the day that the perfume doesn’t rub off on the furniture.

I stand awkwardly, hands dangling at my sides. I’m half tempted to point out that I’ve had a manicure, but I doubt that’ll make her feel better about my lack of pedicure. At least the rug is soft beneath my feet.

I force myself to concentrate on that, instead of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.

“Megan called me,” Mother says, as if speaking on the phone to anyone unapproved is a breach of protocol. “She wouldn’t hang up until she spoke to me personally.”

I swallow involuntarily. Mother’s green eyes flash, and she does something with her lips that reminds me of Hera. I try to avoid Hera. She’s Daddy’s wife, and she hates all the—as she calls them—bastard children.

I can’t avoid Mother.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mother asks.

I blink. I didn’t miss any sentences. She said Megan called, wouldn’t hang up, and then didn’t say more. Which means she expects me to make the leaps, and I’m not going to.

“I’m not responsible for what Megan does.” That sentence sounded better in my head than when I say it out loud. Out loud it sounds whiny and defensive.

“Really?” Mother asks, her voice dripping with disdain. “Because Megan called to discuss you.”

I shrug.

Mother’s eyes narrow. “She says you walked out on her.”

I let out a breath. I’m not going to sound defensive again. I’m not. So I don’t say anything.

“She says you claim you’re not coming back.”

I shrug again.

“You are not one of my sons,” Mother snaps. “You don’t get to feign indifference. Girls don’t feign indifference.”

“Who made that rule?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She whirls, and I get a blast of Clive Christian No. 1. That perfume is some kind of stealth weapon, guaranteed to make me sneeze all over the expensive red-and-gold furniture.

“You need to apologize to me,” Mother says.

“For what?” Since I already started digging the hole, I might as well continue.

“For making Megan call me,” Mother says. “That woman is awful.”

“I know,” I say, channeling Brit’s sympathetic calm. “That’s why I walked out.”

Mother stops and looks at me sideways. Whatever she expected me to say, it hadn’t been that.

“You’re here on Megan’s sufferance,” Mother says. “She determines whether you stay or leave.”

“That’s not what I remember.” I’m not going to tell her that we girls decided we’d live with our mothers and lose our magic, particularly since I’d just screamed at Megan because I hadn’t really been part of that decision.

“Oh?” Mother says. “Because I wasn’t consulted until I was told you were going to move in. And then I was told that it all depended on Megan.”

“Is that why you stopped going to the sessions with her?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.

Mother throws a truly foul look at me. “I have a shrink. I don’t need another one.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “If you don’t go see Megan, then you can get rid of me, right?”

Mother raises herself to her full height, which—in those heels—is several inches taller than me.

“You ascribe to me Machiavellian motives,” she says.

I have no idea what “Machiavellian” is, only that it doesn’t sound good.

“I’m just looking at the logic,” I say. “If you believe that Megan’s in charge of all of this—and she isn’t, but I guess you didn’t go to all the family meetings, which is so normal for you—then if you stop going to those sessions, you get rid of me, right?”

Mother raises her chin. “I am not trying to get rid of you.”

Now she’s the one sounding defensive, and by the look of surprise in her eyes, she just realized it.

“I simply have to manage my time.” Her right hand plays with the gold bangles on her left wrist. “Owen and I are very important people, and we don’t have time for things like—”

“A daughter from a one-night stand?” I ask. “What do you call me? An Unintended Consequence?”

Her lips thin. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”

But she doesn’t deny it.

“You and I do not know each other well,” she says, “and you’ve never—”

“Whose fault is it that we don’t know each other?” I ask. Jeez—to use Gordon’s favorite word—but really, I mean, I’m beginning to sound like someone Not Me. Not Tiff or Brit either. Someone new.

“I don’t think we can ascribe fault,” Mother says in a very prim voice.

“Really?” I ask. “Because I do. You’re the one who stopped going to family gatherings, you’re the one who apparently didn’t go the mandatory meetings before bringing me here, and you’re the one who has stopped going to see Megan. So tell me again, why we can’t ascribe fault?”

Mother crosses her arms. “You are a truly unpleasant child.”

“I’m not a child,” I say.

“Oh, yes, you are. You might think you’re ancient and wise because your father gave you a job that no child should have, but you’re not. You’re just a spoiled brat who has no idea how to behave in the real world.”

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. I don’t think of myself as ancient or wise and maybe I was a spoiled brat when I had magic, but I don’t feel like one now, and this certainly isn’t the real world.

I’m so shocked at all she’s said that I don’t know where to start.

“This isn’t the real world,” I hear myself say.

“Oh, yes, it is. It’s where everyone but your privileged family lives.” Mother’s too-smooth cheeks are growing red. She’s as angry as I am. “I know how to negotiate this world. You don’t.”

“And you won’t teach me,” I say. “I talk to Tiff and Brit every weekend, and they say their moms are teaching them about this world. You barely talk to me.”

“I have people who can teach you. And you’re going to school,” Mother says.

“That’s not the same!” I shout this last part. They can probably hear me in the dining room, but I don’t care. “You’re supposed to be happy that I’m here. Tiff’s mom is ecstatic and—”

“Serena was always a bit of a bore about her daughter,” Mother says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Serena always felt she gave her daughter up under false pretenses.”

I feel like Mother punched me in the stomach. I can’t catch my breath and I’m a bit nauseous. “But you don’t?”

“Oh, honey.” Mother uses that condescending tone she usually reserves for the staff—oh, excuse me, I mean her people. “I never intended to have a child in the first place.”

“And somehow you ended up with five of them,” I say.

“Oh.” She waves her hands. The bangles jingle. “I planned Ethan. I loved his father. And I love Owen too. We didn’t really plan on Gordon, but we weren’t going to argue with the pregnancy, considering how wonderfully well the others turned out.”

Really? Because they’re total jerks, I almost say, but don’t. (I have no idea how I don’t, but I don’t.)

That gut-punch feeling is growing stronger. I almost double over, but I can’t. I’m not going to let her see how I feel.

“You just didn’t intend to have me,” I say.

“I thought I’ve been clear about that. Your father was a mistake, darling. He was charming and he probably magicked me, I mean, I generally don’t go for short men—”

“No,” I snap, “you just go for powerful ones, and there’s no one more powerful than my father.”

She stops and looks at me, really looks at me, like she’s never really seen me before. “You do know that all this magic talk is nonsense, right? Because magic doesn’t exist.”

“Then explain all the things you saw when you visited Mount Olympus,” I say.

“You’d be surprised at what technology can do,” she says. “Holograms, virtual reality, even the judicious use of video can make anyone believe anything. Particularly if there’s alcohol involved.”

I’m shaking. The pressure on my chest is so intense, I can barely take a breath. I’m too young to have a heart attack, right? Because the symptoms seem the same.

“That’s what you tell yourself?” I ask, happy that my voice isn’t shaking as badly as the rest of me. “That Daddy plied you with drink and you ended up pregnant?”

“To my shame, yes,” Mother says.

“And I’m just an example of your shame.” My voice is getting even stronger.

She shrugs one shoulder and inclines her head slightly, as if she expects me to understand. “When you get older, you’ll realize that most women—forgive me, most people—don’t want to revisit their one-night-stands.”

“Even if there’s a child involved,” I say.

“Even if,” she says. “Usually, in the real world, one person ends up with custody of the child.”

“The mother.” I’ve seen the movies. I know. “The father doesn’t usually get told.”

“Your father monitored. Some of the other women I spoke to who’ve had his children say that he always monitors. He’s rather obsessed with progeny, you know.”

It would have been nice if he had spoken to his progeny once in a while. But I don’t say that to her. Because we’re not talking about Daddy.

“He took you the day you were born,” she says. “You know that, right?”

I can’t manage more than a shallow breath. Even my ribcage hurts. “Yes, I know.”

“Most people would understand, then, that they’re getting full custody. This pretense at keeping me involved, I’ve never understood it. Especially since the culture you were raised in is so odd.” This time, she shrugs both shoulders. “That’s why I faded out. Owen assures me that custody battles across nations are fraught and complicated, and when the opposing party has a limited view of reality, well, the battles become even more complicated.”

It takes me a minute to realize that she means Daddy has a limited view of reality, not her.

“You could have just told him,” I manage to say.

She gives me a pitying look. “Oh, darling, I did. Repeatedly. But he kept saying a girl needs her mother. Even if a girl only needs her mother for designated times of the year, apparently. Had I known how little he really cared about you or anything else for that matter…”

She lets her voice trail off, but I desperately want her to finish that sentence. I want her to say, Had I known how little he really cared about you, I would have taken you immediately.

Instead, she studies my face as if she can see that want, that need. She shrugs a third time.

“Well, darling, had I known, I would have spoken to someone there to make sure you were properly cared for. I had no idea that you had essentially raised yourself.”

I have so many retorts. I didn’t raise myself. I have sisters, family, people who love me. But what comes out of my mouth is, “You mean raise myself like your boys are raising themselves?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crystal. We’re raising the boys.” She shakes her head at me.

“You’re never here,” I say.

“And you sound like a broken record. You used to say that to me when I came to Greece, and you’re saying it now. You simply do not appreciate what I do for you.”

I cross my arms. It feels like I’m holding the pain inside so that it won’t crush me. “What do you do for me?”

She tilts her head, as if I’ve asked her a question in a foreign language. “Look at how you’re dressed,” she says, then raises her eyebrows a little. “Well, that’s probably not a good example, since you clearly haven’t been listening. But you don’t want for anything. You’re in the best school in the country—and believe you me, it cost a fortune to get you in there. Everyone in this city would love to live like you do. Everyone. I don’t even question your expenditures like I question the boys’.”

(She doesn’t question the boys’ expenditures. I know she doesn’t. I’ve talked about it with E and Danny and Fabe and Gordon.)

“You are now being raised in complete privilege, instead of some filthy mountaintop with delusional people who procreate like rabbits. Your life is so much better now than it ever was.”

She crosses her arms too. I know we look alike. Everyone says so, and for once, I can see it in our posture. It makes me want to drop my arms, but I don’t. I want her to see it. I want her to know she’s connected to me, whether she wants to be or not.

“No, my life isn’t better,” I say. “It’s worse. I want to go home.”

“I’d love to send you there, but your family doesn’t use modern technology. I can’t call your father and I can’t reach anyone else I’ve met in Greece.” Mother sighs, as if it’s all my fault. “I tried to talk with Megan about this, but she says that we’re not to have contact with those people until the winter holidays. In other words, she won’t facilitate it. Owen’s had his staff try to find a way to contact them as well, but your family is off the grid. So, we’re stuck with each other until then.”

Your family. Stuck. Stuck. Your family.

The words swirl in my head, along with other words, words I can’t seem to get enough air to say.

Something about family—her family, your family—and the fact that I call her Mother, because we supposedly have a relationship. Because…

“Why did you even have me?” I ask. I’m not talking about bringing me here. I’m talking about giving birth to me. It seems that the nine-month commitment she made to carry me was the longest commitment she ever made to me.

She uncrosses her arms. Then she wipes the fingers of her right hand over her mouth, and looks down. I’ve never seen her unsure of herself before, but suddenly she is.

“Don’t ask me that,” she says softly.

“I am asking,” I say. “I’ve already asked.”

She raises her head. That angry expression is gone from her face. Instead, there’s something else, something…scared? Vulnerable? I suddenly realize I don’t know her well enough to tell what, exactly, that emotion is.

“Your father insisted,” she says.

“What?” The only story I heard was that he showed up in the delivery room because I’d turned it back into a womb the moment I was born. Like he hadn’t been there at all before that moment.

“Your father showed up at my first appointment, where I asked the doctor to get rid…I mean, I asked how much it would cost to…”

She isn’t finishing her sentences, but I know what she means. She was asking how much it would cost to abort me.

“Your dad barged in. He wasn’t there and then he was, and he told the doctor that no one would mess with me. Then he pulled me outside, and he said if I ever tried anything like that again, he’d lock me up in a room like he’d done to one of his other girlfriends.” She looks pale. “I believed him.”

Daddy made her have me? Why would he do that?

“That womb story? It’s not true?”

“I don’t know if it’s true,” she snaps. “I was hallucinating after you were born. It was a good story to tell in Greece, when all those other mothers had weird stories. I saw a womb, and I think the doctors humored me. But that’s not why I gave you to your father.”

“You were planning to all along,” I whisper.

“You’re his, not mine,” she says. “And it’s time you understand that.”

SIX

MY LEGS WON’T hold me anymore. I manage two steps off the rug and sink onto a couch that’s as uncomfortable as it looks. Every part of me aches.

I know she doesn’t want me, so why does her actually saying it hurt so much? Because she cares so very little about me that it doesn’t matter how she talks to me?

Because she’s being honest?

“I could have told you that if you’d only consulted with me before volunteering me for this awful program you and your therapist designed,” Mother continues, apparently oblivious to my reaction. “I could have told you there was no point in coming here. I did tell Megan, after things got underway, but she said that I would learn to appreciate you.”

Mother laughs. She laughs, like this is all one big joke.

“No one appreciates teenage girls,” she says. “I could have told Megan that, and probably should have, but she was a teenage girl once. She should have remembered what it was like.”

My mouth is dry, but my eyes are wet. I pick at my skirt, head bent.

“So I told myself that I could at least teach you what the real world is like,” Mother says. “I can do that much. We are related, after all. And I figured it wouldn’t hurt the boys to learn they have a sister.”

I am not going to wipe at my face. I’m not. But I can’t look up at her either.

“But you don’t like me,” Mother says, “and I’m not that fond of you.”

The words slice into me. I can’t look at her. I’m afraid she’ll see how I’m feeling.

I didn’t want things to go this way. I didn’t. I had hopes…

I swallow hard, but don’t say anything. Mother is doing all the talking.

“So,” she continues without changing her tone, “now that we have our cards on the table, let us agree that we will get through these next few months and then go on our separate ways, all right?”

I’m dizzy. Lightheaded and dizzy. Maybe I’m not breathing. I make myself focus. In. Out. Yes, I’m breathing. But I’m still dizzy.

“Crystal.” Mother’s voice sounds like the snap of a towel. “Let’s make an agreement—”

“I heard you the first time,” I say, and dammit, I sound tearful and miserable. I don’t want to, and if I still had my magic, I’d spell my voice so that it would sound normal.

Hell, I wouldn’t do that. I’d turn my mother into—what? What was the worst thing she could be?

I let out a sound. I don’t even know her well enough to know what kind of shape-shift would horrify her the most.

“Oh.” Mother breathes that word out, and she sounds disappointed, like I’ve done something wrong. I find it ironic that I recognize that tone in her voice already.

She sighs heavily, like I’ve put her out or something. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

People mean that when they say it, and they sound concerned. She doesn’t sound concerned. She sounds annoyed. I’ve put her out by being “upset.”

“I know we agree here,” she says, “and I’m sorry if I’m being too blunt, but—”

“How do you know we agree?” I’ve raised my head. Something runs down my left cheek, but I’m not going to swipe at it. “I actually thought we had a relationship—”

“We do, darling,” Mother says. “I’m your mother.”

“You’re not my mother,” I snap. “I’ve seen dogs be better mothers than you. You’ve turned me away at every chance. Why? Because I’m a girl?”

She tilts her head. “I forget sometimes how young you are.”

But of course she hasn’t, because she just accused me of being a difficult teenage girl.

She sighs again. I’m beginning to hate that sound.

“My sons, Crystal, come from love. They’re a part of a great relationship, and even though Ethan’s father is no longer in the picture, I adored him when we made Ethan. You’ll understand that one day—”

“So I’m worthless because you didn’t love my father?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” She’s frowning. “You’re twisting my words in quite an ugly fashion.”

“You did say that.” I stand up. “Repeatedly. I’m not a person to you. I’m a mistake, a burden, something you don’t want, and have repeatedly rejected. I get the message. No matter how hard you try to get rid of me, you can’t. So why don’t I just move out and save you the burden of dealing with me?”

“And do what, Crystal?” Her voice is dry, her expression flat. “You have no idea how to survive in this city, and I’m legally responsible for you.”

“You just said you weren’t.” I’m trying not to sound desperate or confused or even angry, but I’m failing at all of it.

“Actually, I am,” she says. “I’ve given you a home here, and we’ve made certain your identification lists me as your parent, and I’m on your birth certificate, after all. The City of New York would look askance if I let you live on your own, with your level of knowledge and your ability to survive in the real world.”

“You mean the paparazzi and the press would have a field day,” I say.

She inclines her head. “That too.”

“Maybe I should go to them and just tell them everything.” I know that threat has worked in every movie I’ve ever seen.

But Mother doesn’t look too concerned. “Darling, they’ll just think you crazy. You’ll be the crazy child of the Wright family, and then the rumors will start that no one has seen you because you’ve been institutionalized, and when they try to track you down, they won’t be able to find anything about you, so that’ll lend credence to the institutionalization story, and then Owen and I will get all kinds of credit for trying to socialize you. It won’t work to your advantage at all.”

I stare at her. I’ve been around powerful, self-involved people my entire life, and I understand how they threaten. Some, like my father, are full of bluster and bluntness. But many, like my father’s wife Hera, are subtler. They say things that sound perfectly reasonable, but you know they’re a real threat.

My mother, the woman who is supposed to love and cherish me (if movies are to be believed), just threatened to tell the press that I’ve been in an institution all my life, and if I tell anyone about my real upbringing, she will see to it that I’m institutionalized “again.”

At least until the winter holidays.

And I’ve seen the movies, like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted, and Twelve Monkeys, and I don’t ever, ever, ever want to go into those institutions.

“You’d do that,” I say softly.

“Do what, darling?” she asks.

“Institutionalize me,” I say.

She gives me a patronizing look. “See, this is why you’re not doing well in my world. I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” My voice is flat, even though another tear escapes from my left eye. “I got the message.”

Her eyes lower for just a moment, taking in the droplets hanging off my chin, and then her gaze meets mine.

“Good,” she says. And in that one word, all of the pretend has vanished. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

I won’t break from that gaze. I want her to look away first, but she’s not. She’s just staring at me.

Finally, she gives me a tiny smile. It doesn’t move her frozen cheeks at all.

“The winter holidays aren’t that far away,” she says. “We can put up with each other for that long.”

“And then we’re done,” I say.

“Yes,” she replies calmly. “And then we’re done.”

SEVEN

I WALKED OUT of that room first, down the hall, and into the dining room. I ate dinner, even though I don’t remember what I ate, although I do remember the way E looked at me, like he was trying to figure me out or something.

Danny and Fabe dominated the conversation, and Owen chimed in once or twice, but Mother didn’t say anything.

She didn’t look at me either.

I couldn’t look at the city or stare at my reflection in the windows. I just had to get through the meal, and I did.

Then I went to my room.

Where I am now, heart pounding. Part of me still feels like running, but Mother’s right. What’ll happen next? At least in this city. She and Owen are big deals here, and that could backfire on me.

Tiff says I never consider the consequences, but I am right now.

And I’m done. I’ve had it with everything.

I glance at the bed that’s always been too big for me, the room that is more than I need, the bathroom that is some kind of religious experience, and I realize I can do a bunch of things.

I can collapse in tears on the bed, sobbing because Mother treated me badly. But then, where would that get me? She’s always treated me badly. It’s my fault for expecting her to be something other than what she always is.

My throat aches, but my eyes are finally dry. I hate feeling stupid, and I feel stupid as I stand here.

I didn’t defend myself when Tiff spoke for all of us and had me sent here. I didn’t speak up about Mother when I had the chance. I let events pull me along, so I’m here, alone—really alone—with no real reason to be here, putting up with crap from my half brothers and hatred from my mother.

I can stuff all the emotions down and just get through, which is what Mother recommended (in a sideways fashion), and I’m tempted to reject that just because it was her idea. Hell, I really want to reject it because it was her idea.

Besides, I always stuff the emotions down. Emotions are Brittany’s job. Thinking is Tiffany’s. I didn’t connect with either before coming here. And I’m going to have to do it all on my own now.

I haven’t moved. My feet are chilled and my shoulders hurt. I look down. I’ve forgotten my shoes in Mother’s office, not that it matters. Some member of the staff will bring the shoes to my room when no one thinks I’m here.

I hate to say it, but Megan’s right: I have no idea what my function in life is. I’m not smart, I’m not emotional, and I’m really not pretty. I was powerful, but The Powers That Be took that away from me, which—if I’m really honest with myself—makes me really, really, really mad.

I hadn’t realized just how important my magic was to me until they took it all away.

Screw it. I’m not waiting until the winter holidays. Mother doesn’t want me, there’s no reason to keep seeing Megan, and I don’t belong here. So, I’m going to go home.

Somehow.

I raise my right arm and sweep it in front of my body, doing what the magical always do when they need emergency assistance. I cast the best spell I can, and say, “To The Fates!”

My voice echoes in the large room. I’ve never spoken that loudly in here before.

I bring my right arm down in its arc again, and say, “To The Fates!” again, thinking hard about that stupid library where my sisters and I acted as Interim Fates. Generally, the arm movement and the thinking should be enough.

Even when their magic is temporarily disabled, the magical can always call the Fates. I think of it like someone else’s iPhone. Even when the phone is password-protected, I can still use the thing to dial 911. (Yes, I know what 911 is. Everyone made sure of that before I arrived here, like they expected me to have an emergency from the get-go.)

But my magical smart phone isn’t working. I’m still standing barefoot on the thick pile carpet in my bedroom at Mother’s.

So I arc both arms, think really really hard, and say, in Ancient Greek, “To The Fates!!!!!!”

And nothing, I mean, nothing happens.

I sink onto the bed as a realization hits me. The Powers That Be didn’t just disable my magic. They removed it completely. I can’t get to the Fates any more than Mother can. She’ll be able to when she goes through menopause and her magic flares up—and won’t that be a shock to Miss I-Had-Hallucinations-The-Day-You-Were-Born?—but she can’t contact the Fates now, any more than Owen or E or Veronica at school can.

The shaking has returned. I haven’t just been abandoned by my mother (repeatedly, apparently. This is some kind of trend for her). I’ve also been abandoned by my magic.

I grab my purse and pull out my phone. I have fifteen texts from M, V, & A about something school related. I don’t care. With luck, I’ll never have to see them again.

I open the phone, type in my password, and dial Megan. She said I can do that in case of emergency. And won’t she be pleased that I’m in touch with her again?

She answers the phone without saying hello. Instead, she says, “Crystal, are you all right? I’m sensing distress.”

I’ll distress you, I almost snap, but that’s to cover the urge to sob into the phone about Mother. I’m not going to say anything about that either.

But apparently, Megan’s empathy-magic works across long distances, because I know she’s not here. She’s either in the Midwest or Oregon or Los Angeles. She left New York after our appointment time ended.

“I can’t reach the Fates,” I say, because I’m not going to dignify that distress thing with an actual answer.

“Why do you need to reach the Fates?” she asks in a shocked tone.

“I want them to reverse the decision of the Powers That Be,” I say. “I want to go home.”

Megan doesn’t sigh, and she doesn’t explain to me in that too-patient voice she sometimes uses that I’m not supposed to go home until the winter holidays.

Instead, she says, “The Fates will only respond in an emergency. Is this an emergency?”

“Yes.” I say. I don’t add that I know it doesn’t have to be an emergency to get to the Fates, considering how many times stupid magical people came to us with stupid dilemmas like how do they deal with their possum familiar when it’s eaten too many cupcakes? That was never an emergency, although Brit didn’t like the way that mage treated his familiar (even if the thing looked like an obese rat). She wanted to spell the mage right then and there, taking away his magical abilities, but Tiff said we couldn’t.

And I don’t want to think about that stuff. I have to force my mind away from what I know, and back to the conversation.

“Are you in danger?” Megan asks.

My heart sinks. No matter how I look at it, I’m not in danger. I’m beginning to think contacting Megan is a mistake.

“What kind of danger?” I ask.

“Is someone trying to harm you?” Megan asks, but her tone has settled a little. Do I seem calmer or is it the verbal game I’m playing?

“Right now, Crystal, is someone trying to physically harm you?”

I’m gripping the phone so hard it bits into my fingers. “No.”

She lets out a breath of air that I can hear through the phone. “Good. I was concerned.”

And she’s not anymore? Jeez.

“What kind of emergency is this, then?” she asks.

“I need to go home,” I repeat.

“We had that discussion earlier today,” Megan says. “You have to wait. It’s not that long—”

“That’s what Mother said,” I say. “She’s never coming to see you, by the way. She thinks this is all stupid. Me too. We don’t want to be near each other, but you’re making us. That’s why I want to go to the Fates.”

“Oh, dear,” Megan says. “I’ll come there and talk with you both. Let’s see if we can resolve this.”

“There’s no resolving,” I say. “I need to go home.”

“Is Monique making you move out?”

If Megan didn’t have super powers of empathy, I would lie to her. But I can’t. She’ll know it if I do. (I know this, because she’s caught me in lies too many times.)

“No,” I say, and I sound sullen even to me.

“Is she denying you food or a comfortable place to sleep?”

“No.”

“Is she keeping you imprisoned in the apartment?”

“If I say yes to any of this, will I get to see the Fates?”

“I’m sorry,” Megan says. “I know you want to leave, but we were expecting that from all three of you girls. We know it’ll be hard. That’s why I’m here to talk to you.”

“Talking doesn’t work,” I say. “It won’t work. Mother doesn’t want me. So let me go home.”

“I have to speak to your mother,” Megan says.

“She’s already mad that you called her once today,” I say. “I don’t want to bother her again. Just get me out of here.”

“I’m sorry,” Megan says. “But part of growing up is learning how to live through things you don’t enjoy.”

“You mean like being an Interim Fate?” I ask. “Because I hated that.”

“Crystal…”

I repeat in the same tone, “Megan…”

“I would love to help,” she says, “but my hands are tied. Unless something is going seriously wrong—”

“It is,” I say.

“Wrong in the way that would involve the police or child protective services or something,” Megan continues, finally using her patient voice. “Unless something like that is happening, I can’t bring you to the Fates. That was one of our agreements with the Powers That Be.”

“That we don’t talk to the Fates?” I ask, wondering if those three women had something against me and Brittany and Tiffany because we were Interim Fates. “Is that it?”

“No,” Megan says. “You can talk to the Fates the way any other mortal can talk to the Fates. If you’re infused with magic or in a magical situation not of your own making, or if your life is in danger, then you can talk to the Fates. Otherwise, someone has to send you there or you have to wait until you come into your magic.”

Which won’t be before the winter holidays.

“Oh, great,” I say. “How about sending me to The Powers That Be? I’ll ask them to change everything—”

“I can’t even see the Powers That Be without permission,” Megan says. “Come see me next week, and we’ll discuss this. Because I’m the only one who can get you out of this situation early.”

“And you’re not going to, are you?” I ask.

“I can do so if I think the situation is dangerous for you,” Megan says. “But I’ll be honest. The situation you’re in is emotionally difficult, but it’s not dangerous. We don’t always get what we want in life.”

“I know that,” I say, sounding defensive. For a moment, I toy with telling her what Mother said, and then I think Megan’s not going to care. Megan’ll just tell me to bring Mother with me next week, and of course, Mother won’t want to come, and then we’ll have another fight, and I don’t want to do that.

“Crystal, I can come tomorrow if that will help.” Megan’s voice is gentle.

I don’t need gentle right now. I need to go home.

“It won’t help,” I say, and hang up.

Then I hit a few buttons, blocking Megan. If she can’t get me back to Mount Olympus, she’s no good to me. She’s just going to harangue me for her own agenda, as if I’m the same as Tiff and Brit.

But I’m not.

I’m not like anyone.

And I’m just beginning to figure that out.

EIGHT

I FALL BACK on the bed. I’m still clutching the phone, even though I’m not going to talk to Megan anymore.

Megan, or Mother, or those stupid boys down the hall, or Owen, or anyone here. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to M, V, & A, but not about anything important. Still, they’re going to have to stand in for my sisters.

Or maybe, since I’m really not following the rules anymore, they won’t have to.

Before I can think it through, I start a conference call using my iPhone. I’ve Googled how to do it more times than I care to think about, ever since I bought those iPhones for Tiff and Brit. I included instructions on how to make conference calls when I sent them the phones, and those instructions got sent back to me when Tiff and Brit’s mothers made them return the phones.

But I memorized the instructions, because I wanted to talk to them all the time.

I dial Tiff first, and who do I get but Ms. VanDerHoven. She doesn’t say hello, like I’ve been trained to do. She says, “VanDerHoven residence,” like it’s this completely posh place which, if Tiff is to be believed, it’s not.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound like an American kid. I even strive for the accent. “Can I talk to Tiffany?”

I don’t add the please because most kids I know never say please or thank you or any of that overly polite crap.

“May I tell her who’s calling?” she asks, and something in her voice tells me she already knows.

“Just a friend,” I say.

“Crystal, sweetie,” Ms. VanDerHoven says—and she doesn’t sound unkind. A little gentle, actually, as if she’s afraid of hurting my feelings or something. “Your name and your phone number showed up on our display.”

“Can I talk to her please?” I ask, and damn if I don’t sound teary. “I know I’m not supposed to call except on Saturday, but I really need to talk to her.”

There’s a silence that I just hate, and then Ms. VanDerHoven says, “I’ll get her.”

Just like that. No quizzing, no worries, no nothing. Just a simple “I’ll get her,” in that warm tone again, and I feel like I’m going to cry. Hard.

I have to swallow several times. I’m going to wait until Tiff gets on the phone and then I’ll call Brit. And thinking about the mechanics of all of this eases that pressure in my throat just a little.

“Crystal?” Tiffany sounds worried. “Mom said I could talk to you.”

“Yeah.” I say. “I need to talk to you and Brit. Can you hold while I call her too? And if I accidentally hang up, I’ll call right back.”

“Sure.” Tiff sounds even more worried now.

I miss her. I miss her so much that I hurt.

I wipe at my stupid left eye, the one that insisted on shedding tears when I talked to Mother, and then I do the weird phone things that Google had instructed, dialing Brit’s number, and somehow making it all work on the very first try.

As the phone rings, I say to Tiff, “Let me talk.”

A kid answers the phone, and I say in that same American (kinda) accent that I had before, “May I speak to Brittany please?”

“Hey ya, Brit!” the kid yells in my ear. “Phone’s for yew.”

The accent startles me almost as much as the loudness. And then it hits me: Brit’s coming to the phone with no trouble at all.

“That was easy,” I say softly to Tiffany.

“You didn’t get her mother,” Tiff says, also softly.

“Have you talked to her mother?” I ask.

“No,” Tiff says. “I didn’t even talk to her mother when she came to the family gatherings.”

“Me, either.” I remember Brit’s mother because she was so fair, she actually had to be magicked so that she wouldn’t die of sunburn or something. Her real-world sunscreen was never strong enough to do anything. Brit got her looks, and I guess, now that Brit’s no longer living the magic life, she’s had her first sunburn too.

“Hello?” Brittany’s voice sounds warm and familiar, and holy Hermes’ underwear, have I missed her. The tears are back and I have to swallow to stop from sobbing.

“Hello?” Brit repeats.

“Hey,” Tiff says. “Crystal needs to talk about something. Go somewhere private.”

“Yeah, okay,” Brit says, using a phrase I’ve never heard her use before. I can also tell from the sound of her voice that she’s blushing because she knows she’s doing something wrong.

The phone rustles as she moves out of wherever she was to somewhere new. I hate these phones because they don’t let me see my sisters. We could do Skype or something, but we never set that up, and Brit’s family doesn’t have the right internet connection for it. If they’d let her keep the iPhone, then we could’ve done it, even with the tiny screens.

“Crystal,” Brittany whispers. “What’s wrong?”

They know. That’s what sisters do. They know, without being told. Except that I will have to tell them the details, because while they know that I’m upset and this call is important, they don’t know why I’m upset or what exactly is so important.

I don’t know how to even begin. But I take a deep breath and give it a shot anyway.

“It’s not working,” I say.

“What’s not?” Brit asks as Tiff says, “With your family?”

“They’re not my family,” I say to Tiff. “They’re just people I’m related to. My mother and I talked tonight. She doesn’t want me here. She told me that I’m not really her daughter—”

“You’re kidding,” Brit says. “You look just like her.”

I smile. My literal sister. Tiff’s being quiet. I think she knows what I mean.

“She gave birth to me,” I say, “but only because Daddy made her carry me to term.”

Tiff sucks in air. Brit says, “Oh, jeez, Crystal. I’m sorry.”

And she means it. I wish she were here so I can hug her. Brit gives the best hugs.

“Mother never wanted me,” I say, because if I don’t get this out now, I never will. “She was forced into doing this, says she had no choice, and refuses to talk to Megan.”

“She won’t talk to Megan?” my sisters ask in unison. They sound so shocked that I decide not to tell them that I’m done with Megan too.

“She won’t talk to Megan, she won’t work with me, and she says we just have to hang on ’til the winter holidays when we can tell the Powers That Be that I should go home.” My voice is hitching. I don’t want it to hitch. I don’t want to make that noise at all.

“Oh, Crystal.” Brit says, and I notice that she’s handling the emotion. Dammit, Megan. I notice that, and I don’t like noticing it, because that makes it feel just a little dirty, and just a little wrong.

“I don’t want to hang on,” I say, the hitch getting worse. Actually, I sound totally mush-mouthed. More like I don wanna hang on than I don’t want to hang on.

And then I realize I’m whining. I don’t whine, not even to my sisters.

But I have to tell them. I can’t keep this bottled up.

“I want to go home,” I say, “but I asked Megan and she says I can’t. And I can’t leave here. Mother and Owen are really famous, and they say if I embarrass them, then Mother will have me put away.”

“Put away?” Brit asks.

“Institutionalized,” I say. “Like Girl, Interrupted.”

“Holy crap!” Brit says.

“They wouldn’t,” Tiff says.

“Mother would,” I say.

My sisters are silent. They’re never silent. I’ve shocked them. I’m not sure I’ve done that before.

“We gotta get you out of there,” Tiff says. “You can’t live like that.”

“People say I’ve got it good,” I say. “Unlimited money, great room, rich parents.”

“People don’t know anything.” Brit’s voice is shaking. She’s going to cry. “Oh, Crystal, I can’t bring you here. They had to curtain off a room so I’d have privacy, and they really can’t afford me. I have to get a job to pay my way.”

“You’re kidding,” Tiff says.

“No,” Brit says. “I’d bring you here if I could, but I can’t.”

At least she stayed focused on me. Tiff got distracted.

“Maybe if we all say we want to go home, they’ll send us,” I say.

That silence again. Someone’s breathing kinda loud, and I can’t tell which of my sisters it is. Somehow that bothers me, because I used to be able to identify everything about them instantly.

“Um,” Brit says into the silence, “I promised I’d stay. And Mom’s taking some big risks to have me here. I can’t just leave.”

“Yeah,” Tiff says. “I like it here. I don’t want to go back right now.”

I close my eyes. I didn’t expect them to say no to that. I take a shallow breath. I don’t want Tiff and Brit to know how much that upset me.

“Okay,” I say.

“Look,” Tiff says, “let me ask if you can come here. We can say it’s for a visit or something, and you just won’t go back to New York.”

And she sets the phone down before I can tell her not to bother. Although I’m not sure I would have said not to bother, because I’m kinda thrilled she is bothering.

Okay, I’m really thrilled. My heart starts pounding hard. Maybe that’s the solution—staying with Tiff until the winter holidays. Then I can go back.

“I can’t believe your mom said that,” Brit says while we wait. “She sounds mean.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But mean’s not the right word. Mean implies that she cares. She doesn’t care. I’m not even sure I’m a real person to her.”

“Gosh, Crystal. Harsh.”

I flush. “I know I’m being blunt, but she’s—”

“No,” Brit says. “I don’t mean you’re harsh. I mean she is. And you’re kinda defending her. I don’t think you should. I never liked her. She was always complaining about being at the family gatherings, and she treated you awful. I’ve been really worried about you, Crystal, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to help.”

But I can’t go there, because they don’t have the money to take me in. And Mother would probably cut off my credit card if I go.

The phone rustles as Tiff comes back.

“My mom wants to talk to yours,” she says.

“No,” I say.

“She won’t even consider you coming here without a conversation between them,” Tiff says. “She says your mom has to understand the stakes here.”

“Oh, she does,” I say. “That’s why she wants to wait until the winter holidays. She doesn’t want to be accused of not trying.”

“But she’s not trying,” Brit says.

“I know,” I say softly.

“She needs to talk to your mom before she makes any decisions,” Tiff says.

I think about it for a minute, remembering Mother’s reaction to that phone call from Megan. I’m shaking my head before I even realize I’m doing it.

“Thanks, Tiff,” I say, “but please don’t have her call. She’ll just piss off Mother even worse. And they’ll probably take my phone privileges away. I’d rather not do that.”

There’s silence on the other end, then the phone rustles again.

“Crystal?” Ms. VanDerHoven says. I can just picture her. She’s really pretty (all of our moms are really pretty; that’s what attracted Daddy. He says he’s never been involved with an ugly woman, and he might just be right). She’s got chocolate skin and dark hair and has this power-woman vibe going that Mother would just love to have.

“It’s okay, Ms. VanDerHoven,” I say. “Mother and I just don’t get along, but we’ll work it out.”

“I’d like to talk with her,” Ms. VanDerHoven says.

“Megan’s talked to her,” I say.

“Maybe if another mother talks to her, she might calm down. Because this is hard, but it’s rewarding, and I can tell her that.”

“Thanks, but no,” I say. “Please don’t. It’ll just make her mad. She barely mothers my brothers and she raised them. She’s just not you.”

Maybe if Serena VanDerHoven were my mother, things would be different. Maybe I’d want to stay like Tiff does.

“I’ll call her at any point,” Ms. VanDerHoven says. “You just say the word.”

“Thanks.” I’m hoping she’ll get off the phone, but I don’t want to tell her to get off the phone. I mean, she’s being nice.

She sighs. She hears the brush-off, even though I don’t say it. “I know this is upsetting,” she says. “I hope you’re talking to Megan.”

“She knows,” I say.

“Good. Well, as far as I’m concerned, if you have another emergency, you call here. Okay?”

I nod. I would have been happy with that half an hour ago, but that moment of hope, that moment when I thought I might be able to leave here, trampled all over it.

“I will,” I say, kinda surprised at how much calmer I sound.

“I’ll give you back to Tiffany,” her mother says, and the phone bangs as she sets it down. I can hear her walking away.

“Wow,” Brit says. “I wonder what Megan would think about giving you permission to call.”

I bite my lower lip. “Don’t tell her, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, but I don’t lie to her. It’s hard to lie to her.”

“I know,” I say, “but…please?”

“All right,” Brit says as the phone bangs again. Tiff’s back. I wonder where she went while her mother was talking to me. Why wasn’t Tiff listening in?

“I think I might be able to talk her into letting you come,” Tiff says. “But she’s kinda adamant about speaking to your mother first.”

“I got that,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll make it through.”

“Your mom says that Crystal can call if she needs to,” Brit says to Tiff.

“I heard that,” Tiff says. “That would be so great if we could talk more than once a week.”

“I’m not sure how my mother would feel about that,” Brit says. “I’ll ask, though.”

“It wasn’t hard to get you on the phone,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s probably the case.” Then she giggles nervously. “As long as we don’t tell Megan.”

I sigh. Megan. All we care about is Megan.

“You going to be okay, Crystal?” Tiff asks.

I have to answer yes, because if I say anything else, they’ll know I’m lying.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Today was just hard. You guys made it easier though.”

We talk a little more—or mostly, they talk, comparing schools some and constantly asking me how I’m doing. Finally, Brit says her mom’s coming, and she hangs up really fast.

Then Tiff says, “If it gets really bad, just come here, Crystal. We’ll work it out.”

But they wouldn’t. They’d tell Megan, and then we’d go to the Powers That Be, and I’d screw everyone up.

Still, I thank her. Because she tried. And I appreciate the try. I do.

And after I hang up, I cradle the phone to my chest.

Megan’s got her wish. My sisters are moving on. They’re becoming different people from the girls I knew. They have their own lives, and Tiff, at least, likes hers. Or doesn’t want to leave. Or something.

I guess I wouldn’t either with a nice mom like hers. And Brit’s just being a doormat, like always, worrying about what other people will think, worrying that she put out these people she really doesn’t know very well.

But that’s always been Brit, although she seems a lot more intense about it now.

Maybe that’s how she justifies staying until the winter holidays. She didn’t diss on her family, though. She just talked about how hard it was to learn the so-called real world things, her and Tiff, when I stopped talking about Mother.

Tiff’s in a good place. Brit’s going to stay where she is, and she doesn’t want me there, even though she’s trying not to say that.

Me, I’m stuck here. I guess I could draw little hash marks on the wall, like prisoners in old movies do when they’re in a cell. Wonder what Mother would make of that when the staff tells her.

I can’t even smile about that thought though.

I’m going to do my best to avoid Mother, no matter what. And I’m done talking to the boys. I’ll answer questions if I have to. I’ll go to school so no one yells at me.

Maybe there’s a countdown app I can get for the phone. But as soon as I have that thought, I discard it.

I can do the counting on my own—and I will.

Every minute that I can.

Getting to those stupid holidays will be my focus and then, no matter what anyone says, I’m headed home.

NINE

THE NEXT MORNING, I put on a pale green silk blouse over tight black pants. I bought some green ballet slippers a few weeks ago, even though Mother disapproves of the color. I was going to wear them when I got home, but screw it.

I’m wearing them now.

I pull back my stupidly styled red hair and tuck in some tiny green barrettes made to look like bows to hold it in place. Then I put the diamond studded ring back in my nose, even though Mother forbade me from wearing it.

I look in the three-way mirror in my closet and for once like what I see. I look like me for the first time since I got here.

Maybe if I change into a crop top, I can show off my tattoos.

Then I sigh and lean against my closet door. The room is filled with clothes I’ve never worn, price tags still hanging off them. Because I’m not allowed to wear what I want to school. And that’s not Mother’s rule.

That’s a school rule.

If I show up dressed like this—even without the crop top—they’ll send me home for my uniform. And if I refuse, they’ll call Mother.

Which is the last thing I want. Rebellion should end in something other than calling my mother.

I could just not go to school. I could use my credit card to get into the movies. I’ve done that before, just not when I’m supposed to be in class.

But that doesn’t feel really rebellious. It just feels lame.

So I sit on the little ottoman in the middle of the closet and pull off the ballet slippers. They’re really pretty and really comfortable and I’m almost tempted to put them in my book bag for later. But not even Melanie pulls off different shoes with her uniform, and if anyone would, it would be Melanie.

I take off the clothes carefully. Then I put on the stupid uniform, with its checks and school patches, but I leave my hair pulled back. I replace the green bows with white so that they match the uniform. I put diamond studs in my ears and start to remove the nose ring.

Then I stop.

I want something of mine today, not just the bows, which no teacher will object to. (Other students have already tested the hair ornament rules, and anything that’s a barrette is allowed.) I want something provocative, but not kick-me-out-of-school provocative.

It’s too soon for that.

As I stand up and tug on the uniform, I’m already mustering my argument.

Melanie wears forbidden things all the time and doesn’t get in trouble. Her forbidden items are always little things, like the nose ring, and that’s one reason no one takes her on, at least according to Veronica. But, Veronica says, Melanie’s status as the daughter of one of the richest people in New York allows her to get away with a lot too.

Well, Owen once said (loudly at dinner) he could buy and sell Melanie’s parents without even touching his principle (whatever that is). Later E explained to me that Owen meant he was richer than Melanie’s parents could ever dream of being. I’ve never taken advantage of that wealthy Manhattan kid status like Melanie has.

But I’m going to do so now. I’m going to do a lot of things now.

I take one final look in the mirror, then pick up my purse and my book bag with my iPad inside as well as half a dozen books that I’m supposed to read but haven’t. Then I head down to the foyer, where all five of us kids meet every day.

E joins us in the foyer, only because Mother insists. On this day, he’s already there, in ripped jeans and a crisp white shirt, a bag with his computer draped across his chest. Gordon’s sitting on the little bench by the door, putting on his black shoes. His uniform makes him look even dorkier than he is.

The other two boys aren’t here yet. I curse softly. I was hoping I’d be the last one here so we could just leave without trying for small talk.

But the boys’ latest au pair isn’t here either, which means someone was acting out or someone was late or someone overslept. I don’t know, because I grabbed some cereal and coffee and took it back to my room, so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

As we’re waiting, I realize E is staring at me. He touches his nose with one finger. I shrug one shoulder. He shakes his head, a very small movement, meant just for me.

But Gordon sees it. Of course, Gordon sees it.

He grins.

“Someone’s going to get in trouble,” he says in a sing-song voice.

“And it’ll be you, jerk,” I say. I’ve never used that tone in this apartment before.

He flushes, then glances at E as if he expects E to defend him. E grins at me, and for the first time, I see the resemblance between the two brothers.

“Typical bully,” I say, turning my back on Gordon. “You can dish it out but you can’t take it.”

“Hey!” he says. “What’s got into you today?”

I don’t have to answer him because at that moment, the au pair leads Fabe and Danny into the foyer. They both looked chastised. I don’t know why and I don’t care. I just pull the door open and lead us into the hallway.

We have our own elevator. Apparently, people who live on the lower floors don’t have their own elevator. They have to share a different one, the one I took accidentally my first week here. That was scary. I thought for a minute someone had magicked the top floor away, and I’d never find my way back to the apartment.

Back when I cared.

The au pair escorted us to the elevator, then picked up her business cell and texted the chauffer that we were coming. We’re not allowed to be alone on the way to school—or rather, the three youngest aren’t—because Owen is afraid they’ll be kidnapped. At least, I think Owen’s the one who is worried about it, because I’m beginning to think Mother doesn’t give a damn about anyone.

Maybe she just doesn’t want to be inconvenienced, and a kidnapping would be an inconvenience.

We troop onto the elevator. Gordon pushes the button for the parking garage. E pushes the one for the lobby. He’s allowed to walk to Columbia on his own or take the train or a cab or however he gets there. He’s old enough, plus he’s not Owen’s son.

At least, that’s what E told me when he found out that I’m allowed to go wherever I want as well. I’m not Owen’s kid either.

But when E told me that, it wasn’t reassuring. That day, I figured he was messing with me, but now I wonder if he was warning me about the difference in treatment that he had with the three youngest. Maybe E’s here on suffrage too.

I don’t ask him. He gets off at the lobby, and I’m tempted to do the same. Maybe that’ll be next week’s rebellion. Or tomorrow’s. It depends on how pissed off I am by the time we have to drive to school.

The three boys and I go silently down to the parking garage. The elevator doors open to reveal the chauffer. His name is Ron, and I notice (for the first time, I’m ashamed to say) that his uniform is worse than mine. He has to wear a stupid hat with a bill that shines in the dim fluorescent light, a military-kinda jacket with padded shoulders and matching pants. It looks as uncomfortable as my uniform feels.

His gaze meets mine, then goes to the nose ring, and back to my face. “Are you certain you’re ready for school?” he asks, keeping his gaze on mine.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Crystal’s decided to be a bully today,” Gordon says.

I roll my eyes. Ron’s lips narrow as he gives Gordon a nasty glance that, of course, Gordon doesn’t even notice. The other two boys aren’t saying anything at all.

“Well,” Ron says to me, “if you’re certain.”

“I am, thanks,” I say, and lead the way to the car.

It’s not quite a limo, according to E, because, E says, a limo would be too noticeable, and we don’t want to be noticed. It’s some big sedany kinda car, though, and Danny told me that it’s bullet-proof just like the President’s and any other dignitary that shows up for the U.N. (whatever that is).

All I know is that the backseat, while big, isn’t big enough for me and the three boys to be comfortable, so from the start, Ron let me ride up front—or “shotgun” as he calls it, for reasons I don’t understand.

I like it there. There’s a “privacy screen” that I can control from the armrest, which allows me to shut off those idiot boys. I’ve watched as Ron has used it, but I never have.

Maybe I would in the future. I have lots of choices now.

The chauffer pulls out of the parking garage and onto a side street. I love watching the city go by. That’s one of the great things about riding “shotgun.” I can see everything.

The city looks a lot better from the passenger seat of a car. On sunny days, the big buildings look like monuments. I love the way the sunlight reflects off them. Even the sidewalks seem friendly, the people like moving chess pieces, on their way to something else.

I like the way the car zooms through traffic. Driving in it almost feels like flying. I said that once to Ron and he grinned at me like I was making it up. And I couldn’t tell him that I actually knew.

I peer at him sideways. I wonder what he’d do if I called him Ron. I’m supposed to use his last name, but I can never remember it. The boys don’t call him anything. They barely see him.

He sees me staring at him. “I’m going to drop the boys off first today, Miss.”

He never uses my last name either. Maybe he’s forgotten it or maybe he never knew it. We decided to make it match Mother’s, but Crystal Chandler really doesn’t feel like me. I’m a one-name kinda person. (Like Cher? E asked when I said that once. Fortunately I knew who Cher is because she’s been in some of my favorite movies, like Moonstruck and Burlesque.)

Ron takes a different route than usual, but of course, the boys don’t notice. We end up at their school, which is so exclusive that it has its own parking area too. That way, famous kids can get dropped off without the paparazzi photographing them.

My school doesn’t have that. We have to suffer with the usual street-corner business, although the school actually has staff that go around confiscating cameras and one police officer who cites people for trespass if necessary.

The car stops underground in the parking garage. It’s even fancy down here, with decorated beams and a beautiful window treatment on the first layer of entrances. (Everyone has to go through security at their school and mine, and that’s deep inside those layers of windows.)

The boys get out without saying good-bye. Only Fabe looks back, and he seems surprised to see me still in the front seat. I guess he didn’t realize that we hadn’t stopped for me.

Tells me how much attention they pay to me.

That thought stabs at my heart and I clench my right fist, digging my French-manicured nails into my palm. I’m not going to let any of this bother me anymore. I’m not.

Ron waits until the boys go through the glass doors before driving off. When we stop at the street exit, he says to me, “You sure you don’t want to go home? Fix your face?”

“Are you worried about my nose ring?” I ask.

“It’ll get you in trouble.” There’s sympathy in his voice. It’s like he has a second layer to his words, one that adds, You don’t need any more trouble, Miss.

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “I got a plan.”

“Excuse me for saying, but there ain’t no plan for this that’ll work, Miss. They won’t like it, and then they’ll have to tell the household.” And by the household, we both know he means Mother.

I smile at him. “When the school goes after my friend Melanie, she reminds them how much her family contributes to school events.”

“Your family doesn’t, though, does it?” He pulls out into traffic, one hand on the big wheel, the other on the armrest. It’s like the car is part of him, not really a machine or something.

“Mother told me that they paid extra to get me in,” I say. “And everyone knows that Owen is one of the richest men in the country.”

“In the world, Miss,” The chauffer says. “One of the richest men in the world. Don’t you forget that. In the world.”

He’s warning me. I suddenly realize that he’s sincerely trying to help me. And I find that weird.

I shift in my seat. “How come you’re being so helpful?”

I almost add today, but then I realize that he’s been helpful all along. He’s made sure I understand the security protocols at the school. He’s helped me figure out my address and how to avoid the paparazzi, and he even showed me how to unlock my phone.

He doesn’t strike me as one of those crazed stalker guys from the movies that Brit binges on, but if those movies taught me anything, it’s that crazed stalker guys don’t seem like crazed stalker guys in the beginning.

“I’m not supposed to talk outta school,” he says, almost to himself.

“You’re not in school,” I say.

He grins at me. “See, Miss, that’s why I like you. You’re refreshing, you know?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

He sighs and turns the car again. We’re going around the park. My school is not very far from the boys’ if I were to walk, but driving requires us to go along a really strange route because, Ron said back when he first started driving me, there’s no direct way from here to there as the crow flies.

Took me a while to realize there was no crow, either.

“Talking outta school,” he says, “means saying stuff you’re not supposed to say. So I didn’t say it, okay?”

“Um, okay,” I say.

“Like, confidential between us, you know?”

“Oh,” I say. “Like me and Megan.”

“Exactly,” he says.

We pass the usual grocery stores and bodegas that crowd the blocks near my school. Then he turns the car on the side street in front of the school. Other cars are lined up so that their kids can get dropped as close to the doors as possible.

He doesn’t look at me. He keeps watching the road, like someone’s watching us.

“You asked how come I’m helpful,” he says, “which is just sad. I mean, they should all be helping you. You come in all excited from Greece and expecting them to be family, and they don’t treat you so good. And I hate that. Because you ain’t done nothing wrong. You’re a pretty girl, the spitting image of your mom, and she’s just not willing to…”

He stops, shakes his head just a little, then smiles slightly.

“What I mean is that you don’t need more trouble. And that nose ring? It’s trouble. It’s like you’re inviting it.”

“Maybe I am,” I say.

He sighs. “That kind of attention, it don’t get you nowhere. Better to put your head down and work hard, learn some things, and show your mom what’s what.”

We ease forward in the car line. Another car has pulled in behind us.

“I don’t know what you mean, ‘what’s what.’”

“Be better than her,” he says. Then he shakes his head a little again. “What’m I saying? You are better than her. But be better in a way she notices, and regrets, you know what I’m saying?”

“Not exactly,” I say. But it’s an intriguing idea. Impress Mother? How do you impress someone who doesn’t want you?

We’re finally in position. He is going to get out to open my door, but I grab the handle. He moves one of his hands below the dash, so no one can see, making that gesture which means hold on.

“Take out the nose ring,” he says quietly. “Leave the diamond studs. They break the rules too, right? But you can always say you just forgot you had them. I don’t know how you could forget about the nose thing.”

It’s a choice. I look over at the school. It’s not a pretty building. It’s made of this red brick that someone washes like once a week with a gigantic hose. Once you’re inside, it’s not so bad. It’s done up—according to Agatha—to look like an English country house. The courtyard is really pretty and kinda restful, or it would be if it weren’t filled with kids on break all the time.

“You don’t wanna get tossed out,” Ron says, sounding kinda desperate. “You’re in one of the best high schools in the country. I know it’s probably not so good as your school in Greece, but I’d give my left nut—arm—”

“Nut’s okay,” I say, with a smile. “I’ve heard worse.”

“Thanks,” he says. “But I’d give my left you-know-what to get my kids in a place like this. The schools they go to got razor-wire around the perimeter, you know what I mean?”

I turn toward him. “Razor wire? Like prisons?”

“Only they’re not in prison,” he says, and I realize he’s telling me that because he actually understands how little I know of this world. “They’re in a public school, and a not-too-bad one, but not-too-good neither. It would take all my salary to get them into a place half as good as this, for just one kid.”

I had no idea he had children. “How come you don’t ask for a raise?”

He chuckles. “I get paid pretty good, young lady. It’s just these schools, they’re so expensive, they cost more than some colleges. You go learn something. You’re smart enough. Go be the smartest kid in school.”

“And what’ll that get me?” I ask. I want to add, Especially since I’m going home in a few months.

“Learning? It gets you all kinds of good places. You don’t end up driving cars for people who think they’re better than you.” He smiles. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“I’m just going to go home,” I say.

“Now?” He moves the car to the final drop-off point. “You not feeling so good?”

“No, I mean in the winter. I’m going home. Mother and I agreed that we’re done.”

His face softens. “She don’t know what she’s got. Forgive me, but your mom is dumber than rocks sometimes.”

“Nothing to forgive,” I say.

“You want me to stay, since they’re gonna kick you out for that nose thing?” he asks.

I grin at him, then reach up and take the nose ring out. I put it in my purse. Then I let myself out of the car. I almost close the door when I realize I didn’t do something.

I lean inside and say quietly, “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, Miss,” he says.

“Yeah, there is,” I say. “And it’s not just for the ring.”

Then I slam the door shut, my mood surprisingly better. Someone actually paid attention, and that, more than anything, mattered the most.

TEN

I DON’T USUALLY meet up with M, V, & A until second period study hall. We don’t have to go to a designated hall (which confused me. Most of the terms around this school confuse me).

Instead we meet in front of Veronica’s locker. She has a good one, near the covered stairwell leading to the really pretty second floor. The lockers here aren’t like lockers on TV. In fact, Agatha says most public schools don’t even have lockers anymore because kids hide drugs in them, to which Veronica said, “Well, duh,” and waved a bottle of pain pills she cadged off her folks.

Veronica doesn’t take the pills, but she sells them so she can augment her wardrobe with stuff that Melanie says she’d look good in.

I get there first, but hang out near the corridor leading to the science wing. I don’t want to seem too eager, but I’m always afraid M, V, & A will leave without me.

Veronica shows up first, then puts her books in her locker. Mine are already in my locker, but I have my book bag anyway—I don’t like going without my iPad. It feels like low-level magic to me, something that answers all my questions and tells me how to find things.

My phone feels the same way, but I don’t like using the small screen as much as some kids do.

I amble over, just as Melanie comes down the stairs. She reaches me before either of us get to the locker. She touches my barrettes.

“Wow,” she says. “Bows and diamonds. Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing makeup.”

They’ve teased me about makeup from the start. Mother wants me to wear it, M, V, & A want me to wear it, but I hate how it feels on my face. Plus, when I look in the mirror, I don’t look like me. Since everything else familiar’s been taken away, looking like me has become more and more important.

It takes me a minute to realize that Melanie’s not wearing a white blouse with her uniform. Instead, she’s wearing a cream shell that shines. She has her blazer over the shell so no one can see that she doesn’t have sleeves, but I know the minute we leave, she’ll take the blazer off.

Her skirt is the proper length today, but she’s wearing tight leggings instead of knee socks.

Little things, things you don’t notice unless you look hard. Because the leggings are black like the knee socks. Unless you’re trying to look up her skirt, you don’t see that the leggings go all the way up.

Agatha shows up before I have to say anything about the makeup. Agatha’s uniform always looks a bit rumpled, and her hair usually needs combing. At least once a day, Veronica will comb Agatha’s hair, in what Melanie calls the daily grooming session.

Agatha looks tired, and if I ask about it, she’ll tell me about some rally her dad made her go to, or some protest her mother has organized. Her dad’s really close to the new mayor, and they’re having some political troubles that I can’t even pretend to understand. I’m not even sure what a mayor is except that he’s like the king of the city, only he doesn’t run the city, there are bureaucrats for that, which I’m pretty sure Hera would call minions, but I don’t ask.

It’s always better if I don’t ask.

“You look pretty,” Agatha says to me with more surprise than I want to hear in anyone’s voice when they say that sentence.

I say thank you as we approach Veronica. Today, her blonde hair is piled in curls on top of her head, except for one long strand that loops over her shoulder. That strand has just a little glitter in it, not enough to catch a teacher’s eye, but enough to make the strand seem like it has its own magic.

She grins at me. “Oh, look,” she says. “Our Crystal is growing up.”

She grabs a sweater from her locker and closes the door. We follow her outside. She usually determines where we go for the next forty-five minutes. Sometimes she has to deliver “product,” and sometimes she has to pick it up.

Mostly, though, we head to one of the stores that’s not too far from here, places that are so expensive Agatha says they charge for the air. For the past month, they helped dress me, and, with Melanie’s encouragement, I always bought extra for Agatha and Veronica. They would put the clothes in their lockers and change into the clothes after school, never taking the clothes home.

Melanie told me once it was nice to have someone else in her circle with an unlimited charge card so she didn’t have to buy everything for her friends.

I usually didn’t mind, although today, I didn’t really feel like shopping.

“Got stuff to deliver,” Veronica says, and leads us into the courtyard.

The courtyard looks like an extension of Central Park. It’s got well-tended grass and lovely fall flowers of a type I can’t identify, and tables everywhere, usually littered with students. There are staircases that lead to fountains, and a really strange statue of the school’s founder right smack in the middle of the whole thing. No one sits near the statue. Agatha says that’s because no one wants to be associated with a prig like that (her word, which I had to look up), but Melanie says it’s because the birds always sit on the guy’s head.

Which they do. The entire area around the statue is littered with bird crap. It’s like the only place in the courtyard that has birds, so I think both Melanie and Agatha are right: Someone is making a statement.

Veronica hurries across the courtyard toward a buff blond guy named Brock I’ve seen her talk to before. This time, she leans into him and kisses him, catching him and everyone by surprise. As he raises a hand to—I don’t know, maybe put it on her or something—she catches it with her own, and I realize she’s passing him one of those pill bottles that she has in her locker.

Then she pulls back, grins at him, and holds out her palm. He stuffs something in his book bag and grabs some cash, counting it out ostentatiously.

“I wish she wouldn’t do that here,” Agatha says. “She’s going to get in trouble.”

“How else is she going to pay for things?” Melanie asks. “She’s on scholarship.”

As if that’s a bad thing. Once I started understanding how money worked, it seemed kinda neat that some stranger would pay for things just out of the goodness of their heart. But M, V, & A don’t see it that way. They think anyone on scholarship is automatically a loser, and Veronica strives really hard to avoid loserdom in all its forms.

“Maybe we should just go and get coffee or something,” Agatha says. “If my dad finds out what Veronica’s doing—”

“He’ll what?” Melanie asks. “Make it a campaign promise to get drugs out of schools? Oh, wait! He’s already made that promise, just like every other politician in every other race since the dawn of time.”

I think they’re wrong. No one talks about drugs up on Mount Olympus. Even Bacchus prefers alcohol—wine, in particular. He says it’s better to have flavor than to pop a pill. I guess he would know.

“It’s a problem, and she’s not making it better,” Agatha says.

“It’s not a problem,” Melanie says. “Brock is an athlete and he needs extra pain medication so he can play through the pain. She’s helping, not hurting.”

“He’s not doing that, and you know it,” Agatha says. “He has rainbow parties, and Veronica just wants to get invited.”

Melanie shrugs.

“You’re always invited.” Agatha’s pushing and I’m not sure why. “You don’t know how it feels to get left out.”

This conversation is making me uncomfortable.

“I think coffee’s a good idea,” I say, and head back into the school so I can take the right exit to the street.

“Wow,” Melanie says, “bows, diamonds, and a spine. Who did you wake up emulating today, Crystal?”

I turn toward her. “Huh?”

Melanie gives me a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re so quiet and mousy. You don’t usually make the decisions.”

I’m getting the sense she’s kinda mad that I even suggested something.

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t find something unpleasant underneath it.”

She walks a few steps away, as if she’s going for a better view of Veronica.

“What was that all about?” I ask Agatha.

She’s biting her upper lip. “You gave Melanie an order.”

“What?” I try to remember what I said. “I did not. I just—”

“Interrupted. She was giving us the party line, and you interrupted.” Agatha stares at Melanie. Melanie is watching Veronica finish up. I can’t tell if Melanie’s close enough to hear us or not.

“The party line?” I ask. “I don’t even know what rainbow parties are.”

“Not that kind of party, you moron,” Agatha says. “Melanie tells us what to say and what to do. And here you are, with bows and diamond studs. She does that, and you’re in the middle of her turf.”

I frown at Agatha. “I’m not in anyone’s turf.”

Veronica walks back, stuffing money in her book bag. She’s grinning. Melanie steps close to me.

“Yes, you are, little mouse,” she says to me. “Think you’re important because you’re Owen Wright’s stepdaughter? You’re just some dumb foreigner with too much money. Imagine how they’ll—”

“You know what?” Veronica joins us. She’s completely oblivious to what’s going on. “It’s almost Fashion Week and I’ve got money. Maybe we should just blow off the day and go down to the Garment District, see if there are any pop-up stores with great discounts. What do you think?”

What she said is such a non sequitur that it makes all of us pause. We stare at her.

“What?” she says. “What’d I say?”

“The Garment District would be nice,” Melanie says, then she pulls a bow out of my hair, yanking some hair with it. “Some of us need help with our look.”

I put my hand on my scalp. It burns where the hunk of hair came out. “What was that for?”

“Your bows look stupid,” Melanie says.

“So what?” I say, and realize I’m feeling an absence. If I were still magical, I’d feel the power surging. All I’d have to do is decide what to turn her into or how to humiliate her. But I don’t have that kind of power.

Still, I clench my fists.

“So, I don’t want to be seen with someone stupid,” Melanie says.

Agatha steps back. Veronica actually turns around and walks away. They’ve been through this before.

“So don’t be,” I say. “It’s not like you’re anyone important.”

I make sure my voice is really loud. The entire courtyard grows quiet. Everyone—and there have to be a dozen people here—everyone is looking at us.

“What did you say?” Melanie asks me.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You’re so unimportant it’s funny. I travel all over the world, and no one knows who you or your family is. Yes, you’re important in New York, but New York is a very small place when compared with Athens or London or Paris.”

I’m just pulling city names out of my butt. I have no idea if New York is more or less important than they are.

“In those places, everyone knows my family. No one knows yours.”

Melanie has gone pale. Veronica still has her back to us, but Agatha watches with one hand over her mouth. I can’t tell if she’s shocked that I’ve spoken up, or shocked that I’m talking to Melanie like this, or shocked that Melanie is speechless.

Melanie’s eyes narrow and I realize her silence is finally done. “You’re in New York right now.”

“So?” I ask. “Does that mean I’m on your turf and I should be afraid? Because Agatha’s family is a bigger deal than yours here, and so is mine.”

Agatha’s making little don’t involve me gestures.

“They only treat you nice here because your family keeps throwing money at this place,” I say, and as I do, I feel stronger. Athena is right: words can have power. I had no idea.

“Your family threw money at this place too,” Melanie says, “or you wouldn’t be here. You’re not smart enough to be here. You don’t even know how the branches of the U.S. government work.”

That’s how she first met me. I was supposed to name the three branches of the federal government in civics class, and I said I didn’t know American government had branches. Everyone laughed it off, because I’m from another country. But clearly, Melanie hasn’t forgotten it.

“You don’t know the Greek myths,” I say, because I had to save her butt with the names of the Greek gods in Literature class one afternoon. “In fact, I don’t think you know much of anything, and you’ve gone to school here your whole life. Oh, wait! You don’t go to school. You show up, boss some of us around, and then go shopping. Because you don’t need an education. You have money.”

Someone gasps behind me. I can’t see who it is. A couple of kids are hiding smiles behind their hands.

“I at least have an excuse for the stuff I don’t know,” I say. “What’s yours?”

“You’re a bitch,” Melanie says.

“Oooo,” I say in the same tone I used with Gordon that morning. “Name-calling. That always works.”

I snatch my bow out of her hand. A whole hank of red hair falls to the ground. I probably have a bald patch on my scalp.

Still, I shove the bow-barrette back in. Then I grab my phone out of my purse and check the time—ostentatiously.

“Well, you just wasted our break,” I say. “I’m going to Advanced Algebra. You three have fun cutting class.”

And then I walk away from them. All three of them.

The only friends I had.

ELEVEN

I FEEL SURPRISINGLY okay as I walk away from M, V, & A. Everyone is watching me, and a few people are whispering. But it doesn’t sound like bad whispers.

I know a lot of people don’t like M, V, & A. Heck, I’m not even sure I like them all the time.

If they were my sisters and I was forced to walk away, then I’d be sobbing. (Heck, I did sob when my sisters and I separated—well, after we separated, because Tiff and I were taking care of Brit as we separated. Brit sobbed so hard we were afraid she was going to hurt herself.)

But M, V, & A weren’t really friends. They were companions and teachers and someone to kill time with.

I’m almost to the door when I realize that I’ve lied (just a little) to Melanie. Yes, if we were heading out to shop, we’d missed our opportunity and we’d have to cut class.

But there’s still twenty minutes before the next class, and I have nothing to do and nowhere to go.

I lift my chin as I push open the doors into the school. I don’t want to seem like I’m at loose ends. As far as the kids in the courtyard are concerned, I know where I’m going and what I’m doing next.

Aphrodite once told me that half of being decisive was looking decisive. So, for the people who are still watching me, I’m going to look beyond decisive. I’m going to look positively rock-solid.

I pull open the glass door and step inside the school. It smells faintly of vanilla. They actually perfume the air here to get rid of the teenage funk, as one counselor told Mother on the day she had to sign all my paperwork.

A girl I haven’t seen before sidles in behind me. She’s scrawny and her uniform is even more wrinkled than Agatha’s.

“Is it true you’re Owen Wright’s daughter?” she asks, and I recognize the tone. It’s sycophancy. We got that a lot when we were Interim Fates.

“I’m his stepdaughter,” I say, my voice cool. I’m-not-interested cool.

But she doesn’t bug off. Of course, she doesn’t. She’s one of the oblivious people, the kind who never catch a hint.

Oh, lucky me.

“You need a new posse,” she says, “and I’m willing to join up. I mean, you’re really tough and—”

Blunt time.

“I’m not staying long enough to make a posse,” I say. “I’m moving back home over Winter Break.”

The girl’s gray eyes open wide. “You’re moving home? I thought this was home.”

“This?” I laugh once and then I make myself stop. Because if I keep laughing, it’ll go completely out of control and sound hysterical. I don’t want to sound hysterical. “This is Hicksville. It’s a nightmare of cliques and posturing. I’m going where people really have power instead of using fake stuff like money to make themselves seem important.”

“Fake stuff?” she asks.

I shrug and smile at her. “Don’t you know what money is? It just something everyone agrees has value. Your dollars, they’re just paper. You guys all pretend together that it’s worth something. So really, money is a mass hallucination. And a dumb one at that.”

“My, my, my, aren’t we philosophical today.” This voice doesn’t belong to the girl. This voice is male.

I turn toward the voice. A tall, dark-skinned boy leans against the wall, arms crossed. His uniform is crisply pressed, and he wears a watch that matches the one Owen won’t let the boys touch. So, this kid comes from money.

Even I’m getting infected with this preoccupation with wealth.

I recognize this kid, though. He’s in my civics class. So he saw me make an ass of myself that first week. He’s come into my math class more than once, because he’s doing special work with the teacher. Advanced Study, they call it. You can do that here, when you test out of some offered classes, but not all of them. You’re not ready for university, according to the guidelines, but you’re too good at some subjects to be here.

“I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Melanie before,” he says to me. “You bested her back there.”

“I wasn’t trying to best anyone,” I say, but that was a lie. I wanted to hurt her, and I couldn’t use magic to do it.

I feel a little woozy suddenly. What had Megan said to the three of us girls? If we had remained on Mount Olympus with Daddy and with our powers, we would have ended up as evil as Eris?

I wanted to hurt Melanie. I thought I liked Melanie.

Oh, I wish Megan would get out of my head.

I wish she wasn’t right. Because if I had magic, I would’ve done something truly awful. (And fun.)

The kid frowns at me. He takes a step toward me, then stops. Standing upright, he’s about a foot taller than me, broad-shoulders, narrow hips, and smells faintly of some expensive cologne.

“You okay?” he asks as if I’m going to fall over at any minute.

“I want to sit down,” I say.

He half guides me to one of the “comfort groupings” the school has in the middle of the corridors. There’s floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the courtyard, a large rug, and five chairs, usually filled with slouching students, at least on rainy days. Today, the comfort grouping serves just me, that weird girl who followed me, and this kid whose name I can’t remember.

The girl hesitates near the chairs. He looks at her and says, “If you’re here because her family has money, get the hell out.”

Her gaze darts toward me, then back to him, then to the courtyard. She slips away as if she wanted us to forget she was there.

I almost complain, I mean, he didn’t give her a chance to defend herself, but at the same time, I’d thought she was pretty annoying before he spoke up.

“I’m Kit,” he says as he flops into a chair beside me.

I’d never heard of a boy with a name like that before. “Kit?” I ask, trying to make sure there’s no sarcasm in my voice.

“Thomas Kittredge the Fourth,” he says, his voice going so low that he sounds like a TV announcer. “My father’s Trey, my grandfather is Deuce, and my great-grandfather is Tom. They needed something for me, and they somehow ended up with Kit.”

I get the sense he’s told that story so many times he hardly thinks about it.

“Crystal,” I say.

“Crystal Wright?” he asks.

“Chandler,” I say. “I get my mother’s name. Lucky me.”

He smiles, just a little, then the smile fades. “Seriously, are you all right?”

No, I want to say. It’s been a terrible last couple of days. Everyone I know has told me they don’t want me around or they won’t let me be with them, and I have to stay here and—

“Yeah,” I say, when I realize he’s just staring at me. “I think I need to eat or something.”

“Let’s go to the caff,” he says. “I’ll walk with you just in case.”

“Do I look that bad?” I ask.

His smile makes his masculine features look model-handsome. Breathtaking. How come I never noticed that before?

“You know there’s no good answer to that, right?” he asks.

He extends a hand. I look at it for a minute, then think, What the hell, and take it. His skin is warm and his palm (surprisingly) has callouses. I figured he’d be the do-not-do-anything-with-your-hands type.

My face suddenly feels flushed, and my heart rate goes up. He’s handsome and nice. When was the last time a boy paid attention just to me?

I can’t remember. Maybe never.

That’s what happens when you walk in a pack, I guess.

He helps me up, then lets go of my hand as I get my feet under me. We walk down the corridor to the cafeteria, and if he was someone else (like that weird girl) I would think he’s a little too close. But I don’t think so right now.

I like how close he is.

That stupid flush seems to be getting worse. My face feels like it has its own personal heater.

He doesn’t seem to notice. And he doesn’t seem to feel the need to chatter all the time. When I was with M, V, & A, someone was always talking, commenting on this or that.

Or even weirder, was texting one of us as we walked and talked. I got fewer texts because I was the new girl, so half the time I felt like the texts were about me.

Maybe that’s why I wanted my sisters to have iPhones. Not just so we could talk, but so that I could have someone to text who was all my own.

Kit and I reach the cafeteria. The first thing you can see at the caff is the digital clock. There are three completely visible (and I think there are smaller ones). The first one is huge and right near the door. We have fifteen minutes until the bell rings marking the end of second period.

Agatha told me the caff is extravagant, that most schools have nothing like this.

Of course, I have nothing to compare it to. There are real plants near the door, and a stunning entry leading into my favorite room in the school. I don’t say that because there’s food here (although now that I’ve decided to eat what I want, that’ll help); I say that because the ceiling isn’t so much ceiling as a series of linked skylights that act like giant windows. On sunny days, like today, the entire caff feels like an outdoor park.

On rainy days, it’s the brightest room in the entire school.

The tables have little privacy areas, marked off by more giant plants, and that makes this place friendly too. I was braced for those bare, almost-prison-like cafeterias you see in the movies, where the new student gets frog-marched down aisles of uninterested students, but here, no one can really tell who you’re sitting with without looking.

Which, I suppose, is probably why M, V, & A hold their power gatherings in the courtyard rather than the caff (and probably why they eat off-campus most of the time).

This place always smells good. I’m usually not here so early, because my lunch isn’t for a few hours, so I’m surprised that the morning smells include baking bread and coffee.

My stomach growls, and I almost put my hands over it, but I don’t. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself.

Kit grabs a tray and heads to the long breakfast display, taking all kinds of stuff like pastries and apples and cereal and eggs. Me, I decide to stop at the omelet station (there’s a wok station at lunch and all kinds of other “stations” where they make you really fresh food).

I almost order the Mother-prescribed egg-white omelet with spinach and tomatoes, but at the last minute, I remember I’m doing things my way now. Cheddar cheese, ham, bacon, green peppers, and yes, spinach and tomatoes.

It only takes the lady at the station a few minutes to cook it up, and she hands me a plate with the World’s Largest Omelet on it.

Great. Now Kit will think I’m a pig.

Or, at least, he will if I eat all of it.

Then I have to remind myself that I don’t care. I don’t care about anything here. I’m going home in a few months.

Kit joins me, and I would have stopped caring about the pig thing even if I still cared (which I so don’t) because he’s holding two plates and has a third balanced on his arm.

He grins a little sheepishly when he sees my surprise. “Forgot to have breakfast,” he says, but I get the sense he’s not telling me the truth. I think this is his second meal of the day.

Growing boys and all that, as Mother says about her sons—who can eat whatever they want. They’re not fat. Just me, apparently.

Kit and I sit at a table that’s in the center of the room, with very few plants around it. But the sun from the skylight above halos us both, and illuminates my omelet, which makes me hungry all over again.

“So,” he says after taking a huge bite of scrambled eggs and sausage, “what upset you when I mentioned that you’d bested Melanie? Did you do it by accident?”

Good question. I seem to have a lot less emotional control than I did just forty-eight hours ago.

I take a bite of my omelet, stalling, and then getting lost in the crunch of properly cooked spinach mixed with the softness of the egg and yummy cheese. Oh, I’d missed real food. (Damn you, Mother.)

“No,” I say after a moment’s thought. “I didn’t do it by accident. I’m just tired of people treating me like crap, and me volunteering for it.”

He tilts his head slightly. Mother has a similar move when she’s intrigued, but his move looks nothing like hers. His doesn’t feel affected. It feels like he’s actually interested.

“Something changed,” he says.

I get the sense he’s paid attention to me, and I suddenly feel…odd. Has anyone focused on me like this before?

“I mean, it’d be nice if getting tired was the best way to learn how to stand up for yourself, but for most people, that doesn’t work.” He sounds fascinated. His gaze hasn’t left me at all.

“Yeah, well, I realized this weekend I’m never going to fit in, so why even try.”

He let out a small sound, almost a snort. “Why were you trying to fit in?”

“Because…” I stop. I can’t explain all the family dynamics and the magic and everything else to someone I just met. “I…I moved in with Mother and Owen and thought maybe…I don’t know…I could do what they wanted, but I can’t. I don’t belong here.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t want to belong here either,” he says.

I realize then he’s talking about school. I’m talking about this non-magical “reality.”

But I’ll go with his version for the moment. “Why not?”

“It’s all phony,” he says. “That’s why I love your money speech. You didn’t grow up with money, did you?”

That’s impossible to answer. I suspect Daddy’s richer than Owen’s and Melanie’s families and all the other people on that Forby whatever list combined.

“Money’s not how power gets measured where I grew up,” I finally say.

“What is?” Kit asks.

“It’s complicated,” I say. “I guess the best answer is…”

And I pause again. I don’t know. Technically, me and Tiff and Brit were among the most powerful people in the universe when we were the Interim Fates, and we had zero idea what we were doing. Plus, we were being used by everyone around us, so we were like pawns on a chess game or something.

He’s finished eating everything off one plate. “What’s the best answer?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not simple where I’m from.”

“Greece, right?”

“Yeah, but a special part of Greece,” I say.

“You’re going back?”

I eat some more omelet. It’s delicious. “At the holidays.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t fit in,” I say.

“You haven’t even tried,” he says.

I frown. I did everything Mother said. And I went to Megan, and I didn’t eat, and I wore stupid clothes, and I didn’t say what I should say and…

Oh, yeah. He means here.

“I did too,” I say. “I was with Melanie and Veronica and Agatha.”

“That’s not fitting in,” he says. “That’s finding the top of the heap and ingratiating yourself with it.”

“That’s a mixed metaphor if I ever heard one,” I say.

He grins. “I’m better at math than metaphors.” Then he leans back in his chair, a fork hanging from his right hand as if he’s just pausing on his second breakfast. “I think you’re better at math too. You don’t belong in that Advanced Algebra class. You’re acing every quiz. And it’s pretty clear you know some pre-Calc stuff, if not a lot of Calculus.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

His cheeks grow darker. He looks a little sheepish. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“You’re grading the tests,” I say.

“Maybe.” He bends forward and pulls his second plate closer, starting in on it. “You’re good. You don’t know a lot of stuff in the other classes, but you didn’t grow up in this culture. But jeez, I’ve never seen anyone who knows math like you do. And you let them put you in a baby class.”

“They couldn’t figure out what I know and don’t know,” I say.

“Well,” he says, “maybe if you stop trying to fit in, start doing the homework and listen in class, and actually use this place for an education, you’ll figure out who you really are.”

I open my mouth, about to ask, Is it that obvious that I don’t? when the first bell rings, marking the end of second period. I feel an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. Disappointment that the conversation will end; relief that I didn’t reveal any more of myself.

I take a few more bites of the omelet. He finishes up everything on that second plate, then grabs a donut off the third before putting the plates back on the tray.

“You’re awfully opinionated,” I say, mostly because that’s the only thing I can think of to say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I don’t talk very much.”

He stands up.

“You know,” he says, “I kinda hope you don’t leave in December. You’re the most interesting person in the school.”

Then he grabs his tray, dishes tottering precariously, and hurries toward the tub where everyone dumps their trays. He seems so cool—and then he trips a little, grabs at the plates as they start to fall, and manages to catch them before they topple to the ground.

He looks over his shoulder at me, I guess to see if I saw it all, and when he sees me watching him, he shrugs. He looks embarrassed, not ever-wise like he was pretending to be.

I grin, and say, “Good catch,” because it was. I’m impressed in spite of myself. And I’m feeling even better than I did this morning.

Although, if I were honest, it might just be the food.

But I don’t think so. I feel like I’m starting to get a grip on myself and everything around me.

I feel like I’m finally beginning to figure out who I am.

TWELVE

THAT I-KNOW-WHO-I-AM FEELING lasts all of five hours. Then three things happen—and all three concern M, V, & A.

First, Veronica catches me after American History, a class I’m so lost in that I can hardly pay attention even if I want to. She grabs my arm as I leave the room and pulls me into another of those comfort groupings.

Her fingernails catch my skin. I don’t really want to talk to her for a bunch of reasons. Mostly, I don’t want to get yelled at for my talk with Melanie in the morning.

Veronica’s hair is different than it was a few hours ago. It’s not as elaborate. She has it combed away from her face and pulled into place with a plain barrette. I’ve seen that style before. It means that she tried on a bunch of clothes, probably in those stores she was talking about. Plus, she’s wearing a diamond-studded bracelet that fits over her sleeve. She got rewarded for something, or she made a lot of money in her transaction that morning.

“Hey,” she says, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She wants to pull me into one of the chairs, but I won’t sit down. My last class meets halfway across the building and today, for once, I want to be on time.

“I don’t have time,” I say.

She makes a disapproving face. “You should have time. I want to tell you something important—”

“After school,” I lie. Because after school, I’m going to run for the car and Ron the chauffer.

“Look,” Veronica says, glancing around as if she expects someone to be eavesdropping. As far as I can tell, none of the students flowing around us are paying any attention to us at all. “Melanie really wants to stay friends with you. You just have to apologize.”

“I have to?” I ask. “She pulled out my hair.”

“She gets…you know…” Veronica opens her hands in a what-are-we-going-to-do gesture. “She’s ready to talk to you.”

I make a dismissive sound. “Good for her. Then she can apologize to me.”

“Melanie doesn’t apologize,” Veronica says. “It’s just something we put up with.”

Like Daddy. Tiff says we shouldn’t put up with anyone like that anymore.

“I don’t put up with that crap at all,” I say. “If she apologizes, good. If not, no loss to me.”

And then I walk away. I probably should’ve said something about Veronica, like I appreciate the fact she’s talking to me or cares about me or something, but I don’t.

Because I know it’s really not about me and her. Melanie sent her, and Melanie expects her to get results. The fact that I’m not playing will probably get Veronica in trouble, and I should care. I really should.

But Veronica can say no to Melanie just like I did. In fact, Veronica should say no to Melanie, but of course she won’t. Melanie buys her things. Melanie makes her cool. And Melanie takes care of her until, of course, she doesn’t anymore.

Not that Melanie is a horrible person. I know lots of people—male and female—like her back home. Involved in their own stuff, so they don’t see anyone else’s problems at all. Like my dad.

Like me and Brit and Tiff, to be honest. As Interim Fates, we really didn’t understand all the problems other people had. We just saw them as things to be solved, and as things that got in the way of us living our everyday lives.

I sigh and hurry across the school, weaving my way in and out of the corridors, feeling responsible for the first time.

I’m almost to my Literature class when someone grabs my arm for the second time in five minutes. I turn, about to tell Veronica to lay off, when I see the person pulling at me is Agatha, not Veronica.

Great. Two of the three, trying to get me to kiss back up to Melanie.

“I already said I wasn’t going to apologize,” I say, and shake Agatha off.

“Are you talking about Melanie?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering what she’s playing at.

“Well, I’m not here to talk about Melanie,” she says. “I want to talk about Kit.”

My turn to tilt my head in surprise. I had no idea that Agatha knows Kit.

“I hear you had lunch with him,” she says.

“More like second breakfast,” I say, then realize that sounds worse. Almost dirty, in fact.

She does not look happy. “Stay away from him.”

I frown. I almost say, I had no idea he existed before today, but that’s not entirely true, since I noticed him in class. So the more accurate answer would be I had no idea he even knew who I was. He talked to me. But both of those answers are defensive, and today, I’m not feeling defensive. I’m feeling combative.

“Why should I stay away from him?” I ask.

“He’s mine,” she says.

I feel that jangly sensation I sometimes get when someone tells me one thing and someone else tells me another and both can’t be true. He acted like there was something wrong with M, V, and A. Was it because he had a grudge against them?

“You own him?” I ask.

“You are so literal,” she says. “I’ve made it clear to everyone I’m interested in him.”

“Yeah, so?” I ask, knowing she hasn’t made it clear to everyone or I would have known.

“So stay away from him,” she says.

I step away from her instead. “I’m…” There’s nothing I can say. I suppose I can say no. I suppose I can defend my “relationship” with him. I suppose I can say I didn’t even know his name until this morning, but I’m not going to say any of it.

“I don’t take orders from you,” I say, and realize that sounds petty. But it’s true too. I don’t take orders from her or Veronica or Melanie.

I slip past Agatha and cross the last few meters to class. I’m a little surprised by all of it. I thought Agatha was above the petty stuff that Veronica and Melanie did.

I guess I’m on their bad side now, so I get to see what that really is.

The classroom door is closed and the hallway is empty. I’d been so preoccupied with Agatha, that I somehow missed the screeching bell.

I pull open the door, and the teacher, Mr. Rosenfeld, looks over a book at me.

“Nice of you to join us, Ms. Chandler,” he says in that snotty tone he uses whenever someone is “tardy” (which sounds so much worse than being “late”).

“Sorry,” I say, head down as I move toward the desk I’ve been using.

“We’re discussing the three witches,” he says, “and Shakespeare’s use of magic, the way that modern society has appropriated those witches, and how accurate or inaccurate those portrayals are.”

He says that like I should understand him. I glance up at the analog clock he keeps on the back wall (for him, so he doesn’t have to check his phone or his watch), and see that I’ve only missed three minutes of class. Somehow he had covered a lot in three minutes.

“What do you think of the witches?” he asks.

No one answers. I slide into my desk and pull out the thick book that we’re supposed to read, which I, of course, haven’t even looked into.

“Ms. Chandler?” he says. “What do you think of the witches?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my face heating as everyone looks at me. “Which three witches?”

“In Macbeth?” He’s as condescending as Fabe can be when we’re discussing music. “You know, Ms. Chandler. The passages you were to read for today. The opening section with the witches.”

“‘Boil, boil, toil and trouble,’” whispers that weird girl from earlier. She’s sitting one seat behind me. Who knew we had classes together?

Obviously, she’s trying to give me a clue, and I’m not getting it.

“Oh,” Melanie says from her seat in the first row. I hadn’t seen her. She shows up so infrequently that I’d forgotten she was in this class. “She probably doesn’t think she needs to study witches. She is one, after all. She says she’s magic.”

The class looks at me. Mr. Rosenfeld doesn’t, though. He’s looking at Melanie. His expression is one of distaste, but he says, “I didn’t call on you, Ms. Martindale.”

“Of course, she can’t do magic,” Melanie says as if he hasn’t spoken, “because her family took her powers away. Poor thing.”

My face is red. I told her that in confidence the first week of school, then laughed it off later as the kind of story I usually tell. I had to think of something, because I realized pretty fast that no one here believed me about the magic.

And I’m still mad that no one, not even Megan, told me before I got here that I shouldn’t talk about magic.

Mr. Rosenfeld sighs. “Ms. Martindale, let’s discuss the play, shall we?”

As he talks gently to her, more gently than he spoke to me when I came into the room, I realize that everyone’s been right; they’re afraid her family will do something to the school if she gets disciplined.

“Oh,” Melanie says, looking at me, with something like hatred on her face. “I thought we were talking about magic.”

I glare at her.

“She just called you a witch,” that weird girl whispers. “Aren’t you mad?”

“Do you have anything to add, Ms. Donato?” Mr. Rosenfeld says to the weird girl. Well, at least I have part of her name now.

She shakes her head and slides down in her seat, trying hard to disappear.

Mr. Rosenfeld turns back to me. “Well, Ms. Chandler? What about the three witches?”

I don’t know anything about three witches in some play or magic being coopted by society, but Veronica did give me good advice that very first week. She said to pretend. I’ll pretend I know something.

“I think that the playwright…” I can’t remember the writer’s name. Dammit.

That weird girl Donato whispers, “Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare,” I say, glancing at her, hoping she sees my thank you. And as I say the name, some memory tickles my brain. I decide to ignore it and work on my patter instead. “I think Mr. Shakespeare knew a lot about Greek mythology and he uses it—”

“Oh, there she goes,” Melanie says, “telling us how wonderful Greece is again.”

Everyone in class laughs, except Weird Girl Donato and Mr. Rosenfeld.

“Actually, Ms. Martindale, Ms. Chandler is onto something. Continue, Ms. Chandler.” Mr. Rosenfeld’s not glaring at me. He’s actually looking at me with some kind of interest.

I kind have lost track of where I was. I have to mentally backtrack. I do it as fast as I can. Then, I take a deep breath, and say, “Mr. Shakespeare, he knew that in Greek mythology—”

(I hate saying “mythology,” because it’s actually my life, but I’ve learned no one listens if you don’t add that stupid word.)

“—magical women often come in threes. There are the three original muses, Melete, Mneme, and Aoide, although later more got added because my—um, Zeus’s—well, long story.”

Why do Daddy’s misdeeds always sideline me? I swallow.

Everyone is staring at me, even Melanie, who looks really pleased. I’m probably doing something wrong.

“Then there are the three Graces or Charities,” I say, my heart pounding, “Aglaea, Euphrosyne, and Thalia.”

Mr. Rosenfeld’s mouth is open slightly. He’s clearly surprised I know this stuff. Or maybe he’s surprised I have a brain. Or both.

“And of course, who can forget the three Fates: Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis,” I say, feeling almost like I can summon them just by saying their names. I try not to put any emotion behind the names, because I’m still a bit conflicted about them. I mean, we took their jobs at Daddy’s insistence, but now they have the jobs back, and I’m worried about revenge, but I also know how hard they try to be fair and I yank my brain back.

Losing track again.

“Very good, Ms. Chandler.” Mr. Rosenfeld actually smiles at me. Then his eyes twinkle for just a second, or maybe I’m imagining that. He turns back to Melanie. “Ms. Martindale, which of those Greek prototypes do you think Shakespeare uses for his witches?”

“You’re saying she’s right?” Melanie says in surprise.

“Shakespeare did know his mythology,” Mr. Rosenfeld says, “which you would know if you bother to read his plays. So, Ms. Martindale, which of those prototypes did Shakespeare use?”

Melanie looks stunned. She hasn’t read anything either.

Mr. Rosenfeld sighs. “Class? Anyone?”

Weird Girl Donato raises her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Donato,” Mr. Rosenfeld says.

“It has to be the Fates,” she says. “Because those three witches foretell Macbeth’s future and scare the crap out of him. The whole play is about his reaction to them.”

I blink as I listen. The Fates. Shakespeare. That memory itches again, even though it’s not complete. Didn’t someone tell us to watch out for writers when we started our job as Interim Fates? Oh, yes, Daddy did. He said writers lie, although he loved the way that British playwright made the Fates into hags, because it really pissed them off.

I want to ask if Shakespeare was British, but I don’t want to draw more attention to myself. So I listen to the conversation, even as Melanie keeps staring at me.

Her stare, and her obvious attempt at intimidation, is pissing me off. I try to summon that internal energy, the one that used to bring up magic with just a thought. If I can, for just a minute, summon one one-hundredth of my old power, I can show her what intimidation really is. I won’t turn her into a frog or anything. I’d make it impossible for her to talk or I’d take away her looks forever or I’d make her into a hag—

“…Ms. Chandler?” Mr. Rosenfeld is talking to me. Ooops.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my cheeks warming again. This blushing thing is beginning to piss me off. “Can you repeat that?”

“Do you think Shakespeare believed in magic or used it as a literary trope?”

I don’t know. But if my family’s to be believed, he knew magic existed. And I can’t say that.

Deflect a question with a question. That’s a good method. I used it a lot as an Interim Fate (or rather, we all did).

I say, “Couldn’t he do both?”

Mr. Rosenfeld grins at me like I’ve done something beautiful. “Yes, he could, and did. He used magic a lot…”

And then he loses me again. That feeling’s gone too, that desire to do something horrible to Melanie. I “bested” her, according to Kit. That should be enough, right?

But it isn’t.

She’s clearly angry and I’m pretty angry, and things have gotten out of control in a way I don’t understand.

The bell rings, and Mr. Rosenfeld shouts out some page numbers, telling us to have those read by the next class. I just might. I’m curious now about this Shakespeare person.

Weird Girl Donato sidles up to me again, and asks in a too-loud voice, “Do you think whenever three women hang out together, they’re aspiring hags?”

She looks at Melanie as she says it. And Melanie doesn’t glare at her. Melanie glares at me.

I find the question as offensive as Melanie does.

“No,” I say to Weird Girl Donato. “I think three women can hang out together and be friends without being called names. I think it’s unfair to call anyone names.”

And then I walk out of the room without letting anyone see how shaken up I actually am.

THIRTEEN

HAGS, AND WITCHES, and a girl I thought was a friend spewing hate at me, and another trying to make me suck up to that girl, and a third yelling at me for stealing a boy who probably doesn’t even know he’s in play. My head aches, and now I have to go home to face Mother.

Or not.

I’m still tempted to run away.

I’m shaking as I make my way to the pick-up area. The car is late. Of course, the car is late. I need to get out of here today, and Ron the Chauffer texts me that he’s having trouble with the boys and will take an extra fifteen minutes.

Kids are milling around me, and M, V, & A are standing on the stairs, watching me. Kit waves from behind them. I can’t wave at him, because then M, V, & A will think I’m waving at them. So I meet his gaze and nod.

Then I decide, screw it. I’ll walk.

I text Ron and tell him what route I’m taking. He can pick me up along the way.

I shove the phone into my purse, mostly because I don’t want to see his response, then I let myself out the gated door on the side of the pick-up area.

This entire part of the side street smells like exhaust. Dozens of cars (and limos) are double-parked, engines running, as they wait for students to come out. I walk past all of them, deliberately not looking at them, and deliberately not looking behind me, even though I hear (or think I hear) someone calling my name.

I make it to the cross street and turn left. It’s amazing to me how the streets in this city all look the same—taxis going by, lots of fast-moving cars, people walking in suits or jeans with their heads down, not making eye contact—and yet the streets all look different, with the different shops and restaurants. Each neighborhood has a feel to it, and this neighborhood isn’t quite as posh as the one I live in. There are some delicatessens that always smell good when I walk by them, and a few coffee shops, some neighborhood grocery stores, and some clothing stores that Melanie always said were too “low-brow” for us, whatever that means.

(Okay, I know it’s not good, but I don’t know what it means. It’s amazing how much I’ve learned from context and tone and how much I miss by not asking questions.)

I shove my hands in my pockets and move with the flow of the people going in my direction. I have my purse and book bag slung over opposite shoulders, like Ron taught me, so I won’t get mugged.

I’m halfway down the block, near a small bakery, when Daddy appears about two meters ahead of me. He’s shorter than I remember, especially around all of these New Yorkers, and looks more like a bull than I’ve ever noticed before. Squat face, dark coloring, snapping black eyes. He’s wearing black pants and a white linen shirt that balloons around him. His hands are on his hips.

No one really notices that he has just appeared out of thin air. They just walk around him, like water in a river flows around a rock. (A big, giant, pain-in-the-ass bull-faced rock.)

“You’re ignoring me, little girl,” he says loudly.

One or two people do look at him now, apparently trying to figure out who he’s talking to.

I pivot and join the traffic going the other direction. He still doesn’t know my name. He’s calling me “little girl,” instead of “Crystal.” I think he’s said my name all of three times since I was born.

Tears prick my eyes. I’m not going to let him know that he’s upset me. Because that’s just what I need. Daddy, on top of everything else that’s happened these last few days.

He pops in front of me again. This time, some woman in a power suit and tennis shoes walks right into him.

“Hey,” she says, “watch where you’re going.”

And then she steps around him.

Daddy, of course, ignores her. And everyone else walking by.

“Crystal,” he snaps. “I should not have to call after you like a member of the Faithful.”

The Faithful. Daddy doesn’t have any Faithful any more. No one worships Zeus. Athena has some who still show up at her temple, and Aphrodite has several, mostly because she’s in the cultural zeitgeist, but the Faithful are—at least to me—as mythical as the Greek myths are to my fellow students.

I pivot again, so I don’t have to talk to him.

He pops in front of me a third time, and some guy in wingtips curses as he almost stumbles into Daddy.

“Watch yerself, bub,” the guy says.

“You watch yourself, ‘bub,’” Daddy says. “I’m trying to talk to my daughter here.”

But the guy has already moved on, which seems to anger Daddy. He turns around, hand raised. He’s going to do something stupid.

I grab his fist and pull it down.

“Not here,” I hiss.

“I can use magic anywhere I want,” Daddy says.

I pull him off of the sidewalk toward a tall round table on a small patio in front of one of the delis. As I sit down, a guy in an apron says, “You sit here if you get food. This table’s for customers.”

“I know,” I say.

I pull Daddy onto one of the tall stools, and point at him.

“You stay,” I say, like he’s a dog or a little kid or something.

Then I go inside and get us both toasted bagels with cream cheese (take that, Mother!) and some regular coffee. I use Mother’s credit card to pay for it all, and I’m tempted to add like half the stuff in the dessert display—partly so she sees how much I’m spending and partly so she can see what I’m spending it on. Then I remember that she probably doesn’t even look at the bills. She has People for that.

The guy behind the counter (wearing a similar apron to the guy outside) hands me paper plates with my toasted bagels, napkins, and then looks at me and how I’m about to carry it all.

He sighs, grabs the coffee cups, and carries them outside for me, plunking the cups down in front of Daddy, who looks surprised.

I thank the guy, set the bagels down, and hand Daddy a napkin.

“I didn’t come here to eat, child,” he says. “I came to talk to you.”

“Lucky me,” I say for like the eighth time today. “As if my day isn’t going bad enough.”

I take a bite of the bagel. There’s a lot of cream cheese on it, and beneath it, butter, and it drips on my chin, and I don’t care because the damn thing tastes so good.

After I take my giant bite, I clean off my chin.

Daddy’s watching me like he doesn’t recognize me. Maybe he doesn’t. I doubt he’s ever seen me eat.

“What do you want?” I ask as I chew.

He doesn’t yell at me for talking and eating at the same time. (Take that, Mother!)

“I hear you’re pretty miserable here.” He opens the coffee lid and tentatively sniffs at it. He puts the lid back on the cup.

“Who told you that?” I ask, kinda stunned that he knows something about me, especially something like this.

“A little birdie,” he says.

“Really?” I ask. “Because I wouldn’t have believed that even when I was little.”

Although sometimes, people can make birds talk. I just know that birds don’t really care about what humans are going through, and besides, I haven’t spoken to or even seen a bird (that I remember) since I came to New York.

“Does it matter?” Daddy asks. “It’s true, right? You’re not happy here.”

“Yeah, well, I agreed to it,” I say, just in case Megan’s found a way to listen in or something.

He wraps his big hands around the coffee cup. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

I take my fingers off my bagel. “What about her?”

He closes his eyes for a minute, then takes a deep breath. “I…um…kinda forgot which one she was when we made this deal thing with Megan.”

My cheeks get hot again. Okay, if I ever get my magic back, I’m stopping all uncontrolled visible physical reactions to emotional stimuli (and that sentence alone makes me realize I’ve been talking to E too much).

“She’s making your life hell, isn’t she?” Daddy asks. “That’s the expression, right? She’s making it difficult for you?”

“Actually, no,” I say. “My life is fine. Everyone tells me it’s really good. I have all the money I want—which is what everyone wants here, money, money, money. I live in one of the best places in the city, at least that’s what everyone says. I wear the latest fashions and I’m in the best school, so no, my life is not hell. Or Hades or any other kind of underworld.”

Daddy looks up at me. He’s frowning, and not one of those magical I’m-about-to-turn-you-into-stone frowns. It’s a sincere I’m-not-sure-I-understand frown. “But, I heard—”

“She doesn’t want me,” I say. “She’s never wanted me. She didn’t want to be part of this bring-your-daughter-to-the-real-world experiment, and she would really like me to disappear. She didn’t even tell her other kids about me before I got here, although I guess Owen knew.”

“Owen?” Daddy asks.

I wave my hand, dismissing that comment. If I’m going to get this out, I’m going to get it out all at once.

“She doesn’t like me and she’s made it clear that she’ll take care of me until the agreed-on date and then I’m going home. So no matter what I do, she’s determined to ignore it. I didn’t know that until yesterday, and….” I look up at him, realizing this timing is weird. Someone has told him about Mother and me. “Who told you?”

He’s shaking his head. “It’s not important. This is Monique, right? The one who—”

“Didn’t want give birth in the first place?” I say. “The one you forced to have me?”

“Oh, hon,” Daddy says, “that’s not as unusual as you think. This maternal instinct that everyone talks about? I’ve found it happens in only sixty-six percent of women who get pregnant. The rest are pretty peeved about it.”

I am about to say something about Mother when I stop. Daddy’s gotten so many women pregnant over so many thousands of years that he probably actually has actual statistics to back up that number. Which is just weird and unpleasant and I can’t think about it right now or my brain will explode.

“Yes,” I say after a minute. “My mother is Monique.”

Daddy rolls his eyes. “I’ve got to stop screwing redheads,” he says, more to himself than to me.

He picks up the bagel, looks at it, pokes the cream cheese with his finger, makes a face, and sets the bagel down again.

“This is my fault,” he says, looking down at the plate. “If I had remembered that Monique was your mother, I would have spoken up and said the plan wouldn’t work.”

I smile in spite of myself. “You did speak up and you did say the plan wouldn’t work. You just didn’t mention Mother.”

“I did?” he asks, raising his head. Then he grins. “Oh, yeah. I did.”

Now, I roll my eyes.

“The point is, baby girl, you can come home now.” He pushes at the bagel. It’s almost like the food interests him more than I do.

“And then what?” I ask.

He frowns at me. “What do you mean ‘and then what?’”

I’m still feeling contrary. I’m talking back to my dad, of all people. So magical that he can stop the world from turning if he wants to. Worshipped as a god (at least once upon a time). Able to quell any dissent with a single glare (unless the dissent comes from his daughters, I guess).

“I mean,” I say, “do I get to choose who I live with or do I have to find new roomies. My sisters are still here, remember?”

“How can I forget?” Daddy says drily. He starts to answer the rest of it, but I talk over him.

“More important,” I say, “do I get my magic back? Because I’ve seen how people who are waiting for their magic to kick in get treated—”

(I did some of the treating, and “treating” really is the wrong word. It was no treat for them)

“—and it’s pretty awful.”

“Well, someone has to do the grunt work,” Daddy says. “It’s good for everyone to learn how.”

“You never did,” I say.

He grins and shrugs. “Some of us are just special.”

“So,” I say, “do I get my magic back the minute I arrive?”

He picks up the bagel and takes a giant bite out of it. His eyebrows go up.

“Hey,” he says around the food. I guess I got my bad habits from somewhere. “That’s pretty good.”

A horn honks on the street—I mean, not a normal New York get-out-of-my-way-you-jerkwad honk, but a get-your-butt-over-here honk. I look.

The car’s there, and Ron’s standing outside of it, staring at me. He’s leaning in so his right arm can hit the horn.

“You have to answer me or I’m leaving,” I say to Daddy.

He has shoved most of the bagel into his mouth. His lips move and he says “wrrymmgnnago?” and sprays some crumbs as he does so.

I think he said, Where are you going to go?

I point at the car. He looks over, sees Ron, but doesn’t really see him. I think Daddy’s actually looking at the road.

He’s stalling.

“Am I going to get my magic back Day One or not?” I ask.

He licks his lips and makes a smacking sound.

I grab my purse and my book bag and get off the stool.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You’d have to petition.”

“Petition?” I know about petitioning. There were some things in the law books that Tiff made us read (okay, that Tiff read) that said that the Fates couldn’t make the final decision. Someone had to petition the Powers That Be.

Ron beckons me from the curb. I nod at him, then look at Daddy.

“You’re a Power That Be,” I say. “Can’t you make the decision?”

“Oh, I used to be able to,” he says, grabbing my bagel. I reach for it and drag it back. “Not too long ago, I could sway half the members, but I have to be honest, honey, the whole Fates debacle really screwed me over. That plus the diversity initiative. You know what that is, right?”

“I know that a bunch of you have complained about it for hundreds of years. Other so-called gods and magical beings from cultures you don’t approve of are now Powers That Be, and you can’t influence them. They even think you’re passé.”

“I am not passé!” he roars, and as he does, thunder booms overhead. Everyone—and I mean everyone—looks up. He sees that and grins. Lightning flashes across the sky, which is really eerie, since there are no clouds.

“See?” he says to me, a little softer now. “I’m not passé.”

My little brothers have gotten out of the car and are standing on the curb. They were staring at Daddy, but now all three of them are looking up.

I’ve seen Daddy be this petulant before. It doesn’t faze me.

“So,” I say, “you can’t handle the petition on your own. You can’t expedite it or anything?”

He frowns at me, apparently annoyed that I’m unimpressed. “No,” he says. “I can’t do that these days.”

“I want to talk to Megan,” I say.

“Megan can’t help you,” he says. “She has no magic.”

“She’s an empath, Daddy. She has magic.”

“Stupid magic,” he says. “Girl magic.”

That makes me mad. I almost say, There are boy empaths, right? but I don’t know, and there are gender-based magic rules that Daddy helped install thousands of years ago (men get their magic around 20; women have to wait until menopause. I want to say to Mr. Rosenfeld—that’s why you hear about hags, you jerkwad—and then I remember, he’s not the one who said anything about hags. That was Weird Girl Donato, at least with the negative comment).

“Empathy is still magic, Daddy. It bested you,” I say, using Kit’s word. “Bested.” Interesting word.

“Megan can’t help you,” he says, and people on the sidewalk look at him. New Yorkers usually ignore stuff unless it gets too out of hand. I guess Daddy’s getting out of hand.

The boys are watching him now, and Ron has moved away from the driver’s side of the car to the curb. I guess he thinks Daddy might do something to me.

“Empathy is not magic,” he says. “Not the kind you want that’ll bring all your powers back. Just come home. We’ll work on it.”

“You didn’t answer my other question,” I say. “Where will I live?”

“We’ll worry about that later, honey,” Daddy says. “I’m sure Athena will have an opinion—”

I make a disgusted noise. In other words, he doesn’t know.

“You’re just here to undercut Megan, aren’t you?” I ask. “To have some kind of control in the decisions with me and Tiffany and Brittany. You don’t like that someone else won.”

“No, honey, that’s not true,” Daddy says. “I remembered how difficult Monique is, and I figured you needed someone in your court.”

That phrase—that American phrase—brought tears to my eyes.

“But you’re not in my court,” I say. “You don’t even know what a court is.”

“It’s for kings and queens,” he says. “And you’re my little princess.”

Really? I’m appalled. He actually said that? To me? He barely knows my name.

“You want to help me?” I ask.

He nods.

“Do you really want to help me?” I ask again.

“Yes,” he says, sounding annoyed.

I take a deep breath and ask for something I never thought I’d ask for in a million years. “Then take me to the Fates.”

FOURTEEN

“OH, HONEY,” DADDY says, “the Fates can’t help you.”

He looks a little odd. I’ve never seen that particular expression on his bullish face. He looks…scared? My dad—the great God Zeus—is afraid of the Fates? What kind of punishment did the other members of the Powers That Be assign to my once all-powerful father?

People are still passing on the street. The boys have moved closer. Gordon’s really close. He clearly wants to hear this. Ron has a hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

“Well,” I say to Daddy, “if you can’t get me to the Fates, you can’t help me either. So either get the hell out of here or take me to see them.”

He opens his mouth and almost immediately closes it. Then he looks at my hair and says, “Redheads. I’m plagued with redheads.”

He waves a hand, just like I had done in my bedroom the night before, and says in a booming voice, “To the Fates!”

He disappears in a big white cloud of drama, and I’m still at the table, with his empty plate, full coffee cup, and my half-eaten bagel. Of course, I can’t go to the Fates. They don’t want to see me. I stole their job.

Then a hand reaches out of that big fluffy cloud, grabs my arm, and yanks me upwards. For a half minute, we’re actually in a cloud. It’s not fluffy at all, but damp and misty and I can see everyone on the street staring at it.

And then thunder booms, and we tumble into that damn library where I spent the last I don’t know how long trapped with my sisters before we managed to talk to Megan.

The library doesn’t smell like old dog pee, pizza, and bubblegum anymore. It smells like rich wood and books. I kinda like the smell, even though I shouldn’t. And it almost feels like home. The huge shelves that go up several stories, the pretty wood floor (polished now), and the fog that appears as the shelves vanish into the distance.

That fog used to intimidate me because we were supposed to read all of those books, but it doesn’t now since I don’t have to read them anymore.

Me and Daddy are standing in front of a huge raised desk, which Tiffany always called “The Bench.” She hated the bench, said it made her feel old, and when we were near it, we sat on top of it.

The Fates stand behind it. They’re wearing white tunics that run all the way to the ground, like the Fates in the books everyone is making me read at school.

The Fate to my left is Atropos. She has dark hair and black eyes, and once upon a time (not that long ago) Tiffany stood in for her, probably because Tiff has dark hair too. Daddy is nothing if not superficial.

According to the books (and the magic), Atropos cuts the thread of life when everyone dies. I’ve never seen the thread of life, but Clotho, Brittany’s counterpart (whom I have trouble looking at even now), is the one who spins that thread. If you ask me to spin anything, I can’t do it. I never learned any of that female stuff.

In fact, when I first became an Interim Fate, I thought spinning meant (you know) going round in circles. Sigh. We really were too stupid to live.

Clotho is staring at me. She is as thin as Brit, just not quite as pretty. Clotho’s eyes are a bright blue, almost like they have power all their own.

My gaze hits hers for just a minute, then floats on to Lachesis. She’s really pretty. I wish I were as pretty as she is. Her red hair shines beautifully, and her green eyes are more emerald than forest.

It feels like she can see all the way into your soul, which she probably can, considering she’s the one who actually figures out the future. Or as the Fate instructions say, she’s the disposer of lots, giving everyone a destiny.

I’m still not sure what a destiny is or how to figure it out, but I had enough integrity when we were Interim Fates not to assign anyone anything before I understood what it was.

That used to make Daddy really mad because he said he would assign lots, and we wouldn’t let him.

“Zeus,” Atropos says with great disgust.

“Are you going to try to demote us again?” Clotho asks.

“Because we’re not going anywhere,” Lachesis says.

As they speak, I shudder. When we were Interim Fates, we had to speak in a prescribed order. It was part of the magic, and it drove me crazy. It was one of the reasons I decided we needed to leave the job.

“I didn’t decide to come here,” Daddy says. “My daughter did.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, and I jump.

“If you need me to get out of here, you just say so. If they pick on you, you call me by name. If they forbid you from doing that, I’ll be back here so fast—”

“Do not threaten us,” Atropos says, her voice echoy and powerful.

“Oh, I’m not threatening you.” Daddy’s sarcasm makes me wince. He really shouldn’t be sarcastic when he’s talking to the Fates. “I’m making sure my daughter remains safe.”

“He’s pretending he cares,” Clotho whispers to Atropos.

“I can hear you,” I say to Clotho.

“You don’t know how heartless your father is, child,” Lachesis says.

“Oh,” I say, looking at him. He’s got a mighty frown on his face. “I have a clue.”

“I know when I’m not appreciated,” he says and vanishes. This time there isn’t a cloud or a puff of smoke. One minute he’s here and the next he’s gone.

“You asked to see us, child?” Atropos asks.

“You know we can’t help you,” Clotho says.

“The Powers That Be have already determined your fate,” Lachesis says.

I glare at her. She used the word “fate” on purpose, I just know she did.

“Yes, I know what the Powers decided,” I say.

They all stare down at me, like I’m a bug. I flash on what it was like to be them, how annoying it is to have someone seek you out when you just want to do something else. Especially if you can’t do anything. Especially if the Powers are involved.

“Well?” Atropos asks.

I take a deep breath and bow my head. “I’m…I’m really sorry,” I say.

“Apologies mean nothing to us,” Clotho says.

“Shut up, Clotho,” Lachesis says. “An apology is nice.”

“But unnecessary,” Atropos says. “If that’s why you’re here—”

“It’s not.” I keep my head down. “I know you can’t do anything about the circumstance I’m in. Daddy says he can take me back to Mount Olympus, but I’d have to petition for my powers—”

“As if that will do you any good,” Clotho says.

“Petitioning can take hundreds of years to resolve,” Lachesis says, as if I don’t know that. Maybe that’s a fair assumption. There was so much that we Interims didn’t know.

“It’ll just ensure that you won’t have your powers for centuries instead of decades,” Atropos says.

“Oh, jeez,” I mutter, using Agatha’s favorite curse. “Of course. Daddy’s sooooo helpful.”

“Well, now that we’ve resolved that,” Clotho says, “we can send you back—”

“No!” I say quickly. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?” Lachesis sounds surprised.

I raise my head. All three Fates are staring at me in shock.

“Then why are you here?” Atropos asks.

I swallow hard. I don’t know how to do this. But I’m going to.

I take a deep breath.

“No one wants me around,” I say, trying not to sound self-pitying. “Mother tells me she didn’t even want to give birth to me—”

“Oh, that woman is foul,” Clotho says to the other Fates. “I told you we should—”

“Shut up, Clotho,” Lachesis says.

“Yes, let the child speak,” Atropos says.

I nod a thank-you at them.

“And,” I continue, trying hard not to get sucked into their verbal rhythm. It feels almost natural to me. “We all know what kind of person Daddy is.”

“If, indeed, you can call him a person,” Clotho says.

“Fair enough,” Lachesis adds. “But ‘god’ elevates him to a pinnacle that he doesn’t deserve—”

“Stop!” Atropos says. “Let. The child. Speak.”

I nod at her again. I decide I’m only going to talk to her.

“I don’t belong in either place, Mount Olympus or my mother’s home,” I say. “And they’ll both take care of me, but neither will let me be me.”

“You don’t even know who you are,” Clotho says. She does not sound sympathetic.

“I know,” I say. “And that worries me. I’m not sure if I should go home—”

“Where is that?” Lachesis asks.

“Mount Olympus,” I say. “Where my family is.”

“Like it or not, child,” Atropos says, “they’re all your family.”

I sigh. It’s almost like talking to three versions of Megan.

“I don’t know if I should go home,” I repeat, “or if I should stay in New York.”

“We can’t help you with that,” Clotho says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not asking for that,” I say. I turn toward Lachesis. “You know things. You can see the future. Megan said to me that we three girls were on our way to becoming evil, and if we get our magic too early, we will be because we don’t know our limits.”

Atropos shakes her head. Clotho looks down. But it’s Lachesis’s turn to speak. “She should not have said anything like that to you.”

“Is she wrong?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” Atropos says. “You won’t get your magic early.”

That makes my heart ache. I really want my magic. But I don’t say that.

“It does matter,” I say. “I don’t like to think of myself as evil.”

“You’re not,” Clotho says. “Yet.”

Lachesis glares at her.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“You have a bit of trouble with your temper,” Lachesis says.

“So?” I ask.

“So you must learn to control it,” Atropos says.

I clench my fists. If these three knew what it was like to be helpless, they would know why I get mad so often.

“We do know,” Clotho says. “If you’ll recall, we were demoted and stripped of our powers.”

Oh, yeah. They can sometimes read minds. If they want to. Mostly, I never wanted to. I doubt they do either.

“Are you asking us how you can avoid being evil?” Lachesis says.

“Do you consider your father evil?” Atropos asks before I can even answer.

Clotho folds her hands in front of herself. Obviously, she’s not going to speak until I do.

I answer that question carefully, in case Daddy’s listening in. “I think he’s thoughtless most of the time, and insensitive the rest of it.”

“I am not!” he says from the next room.

Clotho rolls her eyes. Lachesis frowns. Atropos glares in the direction of Daddy’s voice.

“I at least wanted the kid,” Daddy says. “Her mother—”

“You just want more progeny,” Clotho says. “You do not care for Crystal.”

“That’s not true,” he says. “I like her. She’s tough.”

All three women look in the direction of his voice. My breath catches. Then I whisper to Lachesis, because she’s next to answer, “Is that true?”

All three Fates nod. He likes me?

I feel like I should go with him then. But he was clear. He wasn’t going to have much to do with me.

Besides, Artemis gave me a talk before I left, reminding me to make my own decisions.

Never let a man decide anything for you, or let the desire to be with a man decide anything, she had said.

She would say that, Aphrodite said when I told her. She’s not fond of men.

Yeah, Athena said with a grin. And Aphrodite’s too fond of them. But she’s also good at manipulating them.

The three Fates are watching me now.

“What do you want to ask us?” Lachesis says softly.

“I just want you to tell me what place is best for me. I can’t decide,” I say.

“Oh, child,” Atropos says gently.

“We can’t tell you that,” Clotho says, and for once she sounds sympathetic.

“You have free will,” Lachesis says. “If we tell you—”

“Then we are influencing you,” Atropos finishes.

“And we have taken a vow not to influence,” Clotho says.

I nod. No one will help me. No one ever helps me. Tiffany has a mother who loves her. So does Brittany. But me? I get Monique and Daddy and the stupid four brothers and advice from siblings thousands of years older than me.

“Sometimes,” Lachesis says, “refusing to provide assistance is help.”

They’re all staring at me, as if I should understand that.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means you have two feet,” Daddy says, walking into the room. “They want you to stand on them all by yourself.”

“I believe,” Atropos says, “that is your life lesson.”

“You’re not supposed to tell her,” Clotho hisses.

“And really, it’s not her life lesson,” Lachesis says. “It’s just what Megan decided the girls need to learn.”

“How to get along without each other,” Atropos says.

“I can’t imagine it,” Clotho says, slipping her hands through her sisters’ arms.

“But it is her reality,” Lachesis says. “She is no longer a Fate.”

They stare at me. They seem united. After we’d been Fating for a while, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other, and that’s the truth of it.

Sometimes there’s close and sometimes there’s too close.

Daddy claps me on the back and I jump.

“Come on, kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Everyone is staring at me. But I have no idea what I want. Still.

“Can I stay here for a day or two?” I ask the Fates.

“I’m sorry,” Atropos says, “but you no longer belong in this library.”

At least she didn’t say “here.” Because I wouldn’t have known what she meant.

“And you didn’t make use of it when you were here,” Clotho says.

“You do understand that an education is valuable, don’t you?” Lachesis’s eyes seem even greener than they were a moment ago.

Is she giving me a clue? If so, what is it? Because Athena was handling my education before I left. But she wouldn’t when I got back. She never teaches anyone anymore. She told me that was something special, and she wasn’t going to do it for a long time.

“Even a mortal education?” I ask.

“What other kind is there?” Atropos asks.

“A magical one,” I say.

“You act as if they’re different,” Clotho says.

“Even mortals can study magic,” Lachesis says.

“They just can’t practice it,” Atropos says.

“You’re confusing her,” Daddy says. “C’mon kid, let’s go.”

They’re not confusing me. They’re trying to tell me something without telling me.

“You go on ahead, Daddy,” I say.

His hand tightens on my shoulder. “They’ll poison your mind against me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I say. “It’s hard to lower my opinion of you.”

He lets go of me as if I’ve burned him. “What have I done to make all of my children hate me?”

“Do you really want us to catalogue each action you have taken against all of your children?” Clotho says to him.

“Because we’d have to step out of time to do it,” Lachesis says.

“I think it would take us nearly a century to itemize each action,” Atropos says.

“And that’s if we don’t go into detail,” Clotho says.

“I really wish you women never got your jobs back,” Daddy says, and disappears.

This time, I can feel that he’s gone. And he didn’t even say good-bye.

“We’re sorry you had to see that,” Lachesis says.

“Remember that he doesn’t like us much,” Atropos says.

I wave a hand, trying for both dismissive and carefree. “I know who he is.”

“He really does like you,” Clotho says. “That’s more than we can say about most of his other children.”

“He doesn’t even know most of their names,” Lachesis says.

“Oh, he didn’t know mine until recently,” I say.

They don’t answer that. The Bench disappears, and suddenly they’re sitting on lawn chairs—which look like the lawn chairs he bought me and Tiff and Brit when he was trying to make us enjoy being Interim Fates.

“You won’t have an easy road of it, child,” Atropos says. “Your path is a little darker than your sisters’.”

“Why?” I ask, and it sounds plaintive to me, like I’m whining. Because, I guess I am.

“Because you girls are different from each other,” Clotho says.

“You opted to get to know your families,” Lachesis adds.

“Your family is…less pleasant than the others,” Atropos says.

Of course it is.

“Lucky me,” I say.

“Indeed,” Clotho says without a hint of irony or sarcasm. “Lucky you.”

FIFTEEN

SO, I OPT to go back to New York. At least it’s somewhere different than I’ve lived before, and I won’t get shunted off to some other distant relative, which I know will happen at Mount Olympus. Plus, I don’t want to deal with magical problems if I don’t have magic.

If I have to be in a situation where I lack control, I’m going to make sure someone can’t change me into a warthog at a moment’s notice.

The Fates send me back to the same place Daddy pulled me out of—that table in front of the deli.

Only the deli is closed for the night (who knew the deli closed?), with the metal gate over its door and the tables pushed up against the gate and chained to it. (Wow. Who knew the theft in this neighborhood was so bad?)

Of course, Ron the Chauffer and the boys aren’t at the curb anymore, and freakily, no one is walking on the sidewalk either, although a homeless guy is sleeping in the doorway of the little bodega (also closed—who knew?).

If the Fates wanted me to be scared to death about coming back to New York, they’ve succeeded.

I’ve learned enough subway/street protection from M, V, & A to know that I shouldn’t stand around looking lost, and I should keep my book bag and purse in front of me, and I shouldn’t reach inside searching for my phone, even though calling someone might be a good idea.

But if I stop and look lost, then I’m saying Tourist here! Mug me! and that’s the last thing I want to say.

So I walk with purpose to the nearest subway stop, and hope the train’s still running. Because I’m not seeing any cabs either, or that much traffic for that matter.

Creepy.

I hurry down the stairs. The subway station is well lit. I glance at the map, like I’ve seen New Yorkers do, and note that the trains are still running here, all the way to my usual stop.

My palms are sweating. I’ve never taken the subway alone before. But I have a pass, and I swipe it, and I go through the turnstile, and I see some well-dressed people along with a busker playing the same Simon & Garfunkel song he plays in the middle of the day, and I let out a little breath.

Okay. I can do this.

The train is already at the platform when I arrive, so I run through the doors just before they close. The car is mostly empty. I slide into one of the seats, and now I pull my phone out of my purse.

The phone’s dead. Even though I charged it all night, it isn’t working at all. Probably something to do with the magic. Magic and tech never get along.

I wonder if the visit to the Fates actually ruined my lovely (almost magical) iPhone.

I don’t know, but I do feel a little lost not having any phone at all. I can’t text anyone (who would I text, anyway?) or call anyone (like maybe Tiff & Brit to tell them what happened) or even play Candy Crush or Angry Birds or something.

I shove the iPhone back into my purse and almost lean my head back (the window’s too grimy for that).

I have no idea what Clotho (or the Fates, if she was speaking for them) meant when she said I was lucky to have a difficult family on both sides. I couldn’t get her to tell me either.

I guess that’s one of the things I have to figure out on my own. Just like I have to figure out who I am on my own.

But it was kinda great to go back to that library and remember that not everything back home is hunky-dory totally-freaky-nifty-cool. I hated that library and I don’t want to go back. And while I loved having magic, I’m beginning to wonder if I misused it sometimes.

It was also kinda nice to remember why I was the one who decided we weren’t going to be Interim Fates any more. Yeah, Tiff and Brit and Megan decided the whole mother/losing magic thing, but actually stepping up and saying we weren’t going to be in charge of all magic anymore because we didn’t know what the ef we were doing? That was me.

Maybe I’m stronger and tougher than I think I am. I stood up to Mother and Melanie, after all. And Megan too.

I grin and stand as the train slows for my stop. I glance around, like I was taught, to see if anyone else is getting off and no one is. The three other people on the car are busy tapping on their phones, so I guess there’s service down here.

As the doors open, I get off. I walk to the stairs and up into the light.

It’s only a half a block to our building. Here, with the park across the way, the streets are so lit up that it almost seems like daylight. Our doorman is helping one of the rich biddies out of a cab, so I slip inside the building without saying hello.

I take our elevator to the top floor, and as I get out, I hear Mother’s voice:

“No, no, I’m not minimizing this.” She sounds panicked. Have I ever heard Mother sound panicked? “But that sketch—the man in it—he’s her father. He wouldn’t kidnap her.”

“Ms. Chandler,” says a male voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent, “kidnappings are often committed by the estranged spouse. I say we do an Amber Alert.”

“And say what?” Gordon speaks up. “That some arm came out of a big fluffy cloud and grabbed her?”

“Will someone please take my son to his room?” Mother sounds frazzled.

“You reported her disappearance to us,” the male voice says. “We have an APB on the guy, but I don’t have a lot of hope, given all the witness descriptions. I’m suspecting he works as a magician? He did one of those sparkly smoke bomb things?”

Mother giggles oddly.

“Crystal’s father is rather strange,” Owen says quickly, “but now that we know it’s him, we can handle it from here.”

I walk into the main living area (although it’s so big we don’t do any living here) to see the entire family gathered. Mother and Owen are talking to four men, two of whom are in police uniforms. Owen’s lawyer is standing to one side, arms crossed. E’s frowning. Danny is slumped in a chair. Fabe looks stressed, and Gordon (of course!) is the one who sees me.

“Hey!” Gordon says. “You’re back.”

And then he runs across the room and slams into me so hard I nearly fall over. Great. Exactly what I need. To be punched out by an eight-year-old.

Then I realize that he’s got his arms wrapped around me and he’s making little choking sounds.

He’s hugging me? The world really has gotten weird.

Mother makes a little choking sound, takes two steps toward me, and stops, hand in front of her face.

But Owen strides over, and pulls both me and Gordon close.

“Thank God,” Owen says. “Thank God. We were so worried, Crystal.”

He’s actually shaking, and beneath that expensive cologne, he smells of sweat.

I look over his shoulder to see E hovering just behind him, and Mother standing nearby with her hands clasped as if she doesn’t know what to do with them. Danny and Fabe have gotten up as well.

“Ms. Wright,” one of the cops says, “are you okay?”

Owen steps back, but Gordon isn’t letting me go. I put my hand on his head, and try not to wince at all the greasy product he uses in his hair. What eight-year-old uses product? (Gordon, apparently.)

I am about to correct the cop about my name, and then I realize that would sound snotty.

“I’m okay. My dad wanted me to come home with him, but I, um, got…”

How do I explain this?

“I got away,” I say, finally, deciding that I can’t tell these poor cops the truth.

“Where is he?” one of the cops asks. “We can still press charges if Mr. Wright is willing.”

Owen looks at my mother. She shakes her head once, lips tight.

“It’s all right,” Owen says. “Crystal’s father is a difficult man, but we can handle him from here. No need to press charges.”

“Mr. Wright,” says one of the cops (at least, I think he’s a cop, since he’s not wearing a uniform or anything), “in my experience, someone who tries this once will try it again.”

“I’m aware of that,” Owen says in his best businessman voice. “But the situation with Crystal’s father is legally complicated. He’s a foreign national with unprecedented access. I’m not even sure the NYPD has jurisdiction over anything he does. So I’ll work with my lawyers to see what we can come up with. Thank you men for your time, and I’m sorry that we brought you here for naught.”

“You were distressed,” says the fourth man. Good cop? I have no idea. “It’s all right. We’re glad it worked out. These things so rarely do.”

They say their good-byes, and all four men shake my hand on the way out, telling me they’re happy I’m safe.

Then the door closes and Mother says, “What really happened, Crystal?”

Her voice is chill. Does she think I did this?

My spine straightens, and I disentangle myself from Gordon.

“Daddy heard what you said yesterday, and decided to take advantage of the situation,” I say.

“How could he have heard?” Mother asks. Then she closes her eyes for one small second. “He’s not spying on us, is he?”

“No,” I say. “I handled it, Mother.”

She frowns, then looks at everyone else. Owen is about to tell them all to leave when she shakes her head at him again.

“One thing, though,” I say. “I’m not leaving after the winter holidays.”

“You had a fight with your father?” Mother asks.

“The Fates made me choose where I’d spend the next few years,” I say. “I chose here.”

Mother looks stunned.

“I don’t have to stay in the apartment if you don’t want me,” I say. “I can stay long enough to learn how to survive on my own, and then—”

“Nonsense,” Owen says. “You’re family. We take care of family. You’re staying here as long as you need to.”

Only he’s not saying that to me. He’s looking at Mother as he says it.

Then he turns back toward me.

“We’ve been insensitive to your needs, Crystal,” he says. “Ethan was telling us how unhappy you were, and I’ll be honest, I had no idea.”

I look at E. He half shrugs, then grins at me.

“We have behaved abominably, haven’t we, Monique?” Owen says.

“We—”

“Don’t apologize, Mother,” I say. “We know where we stand now.”

She meets my gaze.

“I promise,” I say, “no more crazy Daddy stuff. If he shows up, I’ll call you or Megan or someone.”

Mother nods. She looks a little uncomfortable, then she totters over to me, enveloping me in perfume. She doesn’t quite hug me and I’m relieved, but she does pat me on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says so softly that I think I’m the only one who heard it (except maybe Gordon. I think I like non-clingy, sarcastic Gordon better than this Gordon). “I was so caught up in my own issues—”

“It’s okay,” I say, putting a hand on her beringed one, and almost removing it from my shoulder. “I’m sorry too.”

We all stand, staring at each other. I’ve never felt this awkward in my life. I’m not sure I like being the center of attention in this family.

So I reach into my purse and grab my phone. I wave it at them. “I’ve got to plug this in,” I say. “I think Daddy broke it, but I’m not sure.”

Then I flee to my room.

It looks welcoming, even with its big bed and all of the stuff that isn’t mine. I find the phone cord and stick it into the phone, listening for the phone’s little beep of acknowledgement, which it makes.

I grin. The phone works, which means this place works, and maybe I can work too. I didn’t mean to scare everyone—

“Hey.”

I turn.

E is peering into my room. “That magic stuff. It’s real, isn’t it?”

I shrug.

“Because I’ve never seen Mother so freaked out. Your father scares her. I’ve never seen her scared before either.”

“Daddy’s more powerful in his world than Owen is in yours,” I say.

E’s eyes narrow. “And you’re here?”

I shrug again.

“Why?” E asks.

I look at the room, at the phone, at him. “I think I can learn not to be evil here.”

“What?” he asks.

I shrug a third time. “Long story,” I say.

He stares at me. I don’t say anything else. After a minute, he gets the hint.

“Well,” he says, “if you ever want to tell it, I’m willing to listen.”

Then he disappears down the hall.

I’m telling it, but not to him. That’s why I’m writing it all down. I’m not even going to tell Megan, although I’ll probably go back and talk to her. If she can explain the differences between the non-magical world and the magical world. If she gets all empath-y on me again and pulls emotions out of me, I’m not staying.

I want to handle this on my own. I want to be my own person. I didn’t think I did, but I’m kinda liking who I am. I’m kinda liking the way I speak my mind, and cheese omelets, and wearing green.

I look down, and let out a giggle. I went through all of this in my stupid school uniform.

I step into the closet and change into the outfit I initially put on this morning. Then I put the nose ring back in. I’m heading to the kitchen because I missed dinner, and if there’s nothing for me to eat, I’m ordering pizza.

If my brothers want to join me, so be it. If not, I think I’m going to watch a movie or something. Or maybe read about those witches for Mr. Rosenfeld’s class.

Time to settle in—and figure out how to enjoy life in this city, instead of just live it.

Time to learn how to be a New Yorker, instead of some weird Greek transplant.

Time to be Crystal Chandler, whoever the hell that is.

Guess I’m going to find out.

Following is a sample chapter from the final book in the Interim Fates Trilogy, Brittany Bends.

ONE

AS MY STEPBROTHER Eric pulls his car into the nearly empty parking lot behind the Burger King, he keeps one finger on the door lock, frowns at me, and asks, “Do you want my coat?”

Eric’s totally nice to me, and he doesn’t have to be. We’re not related, and he thinks I’m pretty weird. He’s heard of me, of course. Everyone in the Johnson family had heard of me before I moved in. I was Mom’s “mistake,” a cautionary tale for all the girls, because if they “do it” just because they “lose their head,” they might end up pregnant and alone and faced with lots of tough choices.

Tough choices doesn’t even begin to describe the complicated stuff that happened around my birth, and tough choices doesn’t even begin to describe what’s been happening since July, when I finally moved in with Mom.

Besides, I don’t like to think about Mom “losing her head” and “doing it” with my dad. Like, shudder.

And that’s the kind of stuff I say that makes Eric cringe. Not the mom and dad stuff, which is bad enough. But what he calls Outdated Valley Girl Speak. He says it makes me sound totally stupid, but then I tell him that his accent makes him sound totally stupid, and he says I don’t know anything about Northern Wisconsin, which is true. I don’t.

I don’t know much about anything in the Greater World, which is where I live now, without magic, and without any real support.

Mom tries, but she doesn’t know what to do with me. I’m her oldest biological kid, but not the oldest in the Johnson Family, which is how the brood I’ve found myself attached to now describes itself.

Eric is the oldest kid, and he goes off to college next year. He says he can hardly wait.

He’s holding out his coat to me. It’s a tweedy plaid thing that hasn’t been in style maybe ever, but he’s really not asking about coats. In the month that I’ve lived with the Johnson Family, I have learned sideways speak that they all use. Or at least, I think I’ve learned it. And I’m pretty sure that Eric’s coat offer is sideways speak.

“What’s the real problem?” I ask, groping for the door handle. I hate being seen in this car. I’m not from this town, and even I know the car’s a piece of junk. The outside isn’t painted and the inside smells of mothballs.

Karl, my stepdad, says that the upholstery has to be removed, because Eric had it steam cleaned and that only made the smell worse. Plus, now that he turned on the heater, little white pieces of something that looks like paper keep floating out of the ducts or whatever they’re called.

It seems that before Eric bought this thing (long before I moved in), some mice had nested under the hood. They chewed through wiring and stuff, and Eric’s really proud of himself for fixing that.

I think if he fixed wiring and stuff, he could’ve taken a little extra time and fixed the leftover mouse nests too.

“What’s really going on?” Eric repeats. “Pretty simple, Brit. You’re walking. You’ll freeze.”

He calls me Brit. Everyone here calls me Brit. I guess Brittany is too big a word for them. (And okay, that’s mean, but sometimes, all this nicey-nicey stuff the Johnson Family does makes me want to be mean.)

I look at him. He actually seems concerned.

I frown.

Eric looks like his father, all brown hair and square-jawed handsomeness. His head brushes the car’s ceiling, and his wrists stick out of almost every shirt he wears. The Johnsons are big and bony.

I take after Mom, mostly. She’s willowy and blonde. Pale blonde. So blonde that her hair almost looks white. She says she always thought she was the whitest person on the planet until she met me. I’m even fairer skinned than she is, which wasn’t a problem until July.

Then I learned what sunburn really is.

Now I’m going to learn what “cold” really is. Or at least everyone says that’s what’ll happen. Apparently, I live in the coldest place in the world—well, maybe not the world, but the United States, anyway. (And yes, I’m just learning what the United States is.)

I now live in the Midwest or, more specifically, Wisconsin, or even more specifically, a place that calls itself Superior, even though I have no idea how it can be superior when there’s an even better place (Duluth, in something called Minnesota) across a giant inland sea from here.

The giant inland sea, which everyone insists on calling a lake (even though they try to cover up their mistake by calling it a great lake), is also called Superior and it is superior because it’s bigger than all the other inland seas (I mean Great Lakes) combined.

The inland sea—I mean lake—has an effect. So it’s colder here in the summer and even colder in the winter.

I’m braced for it, kinda sorta, but what my stepbrother Eric is referring to is that for that first two months I was here (July and August), I kept asking if the fifty-something degree nighttime temperatures (in this scale that everyone adds the word “Fahrenheit” to as if they expect me to know some other scale) were the “really cold” temperatures I had heard of.

That made my step and half siblings laugh so hard my mother would shush them for being rude. To be fair, she’s their mother too, even though she didn’t give birth to some of them. My step siblings lost their real mother to cancer. (I’ve seen the movies; I know what cancer is [again, kinda sorta, but I understand enough of it to know it’s a real tragedy and it makes even the strongest people cry].) Mom married Karl about a year after I was born, not that it matters, because by then my father was raising me.

Well, my father wasn’t raising me. He’d assigned me to some wood nymphs at first, and that was when I “met” my sisters Tiffany and Crystal, who also have the same dad but different moms. Tiff, Crystal, and I were Interim Fates together, which is a long story. But we’ve been each other’s best friends and close family before we became Interim Fates. We’ve known each other since Tiff and Crystal got assigned to the same nymphs I had back when we were all babies. Of course, none of us remember this because we were preverbal, even if we did have our magic by then.

Magic, which is now gone.

“I am not going to freeze,” I say to Eric archly. I’m good at archly. If there’s one thing I learned from my Greek family, it’s how to be arch when I need to, especially with mere mortals.

“Brit, I know you,” Eric says, even though he doesn’t, not really, because Mom won’t let me tell any of my nine half and step siblings the truth about who I am and who my dad is and who my other half siblings are. “You’ll start shivering the minute you get out of this car. It’s nearly freezing out there.”

I square my shoulders. I hate this part of my new life, the way that everyone takes care of me or makes fun of me, and I can’t tell which it is just from the tone.

“You’re just saying that.” I gather up my denim purse, which is the most embarrassing thing I own, but I can’t get rid of it or trade it away because Mom accented it with this thing she has called a BeDazzler, and the purse has all these rhinestones and fake jewels all over it, and tons of fringe underneath. It looks like the 1970s vomited all over the purse, which I muttered one day to my half sister Anna, and she said archly (maybe the whole family is good at arch), That stuff is back in style, Brit, and Mom worked hard on that purse. Be nice.

Be nice. Be nice. That’s all they ever say to me here. I have no idea how to be nice. We weren’t nice back at Mount Olympus, which is where I’m from (kinda sorta because I was actually born here in Superior, believe it or not). And the Mount Olympus I’m referring to isn’t the Mount Olympus that shows up on Google maps. I mean the Mount Olympus that people here call “mythical” because they think it doesn’t exist, just because they’re not magical enough to get there.

Yeah, I’m a snob. My half and step siblings accuse me of that all the time. When they’re not berating me for failing to be nice.

Eric shakes his ugly plaid coat at me.

“I am not just saying that you’ll freeze to be mean. It’s barely forty degrees and there’s a wind. Let me drive you to the store. Mom’ll be mad if I don’t.” Eric has this tone that he uses when he’s frustrated. It’s kinda nasal, but kinda not.

Everyone in this town speaks with a sing-song accent that I’ve never heard before, except in the movie Fargo, which everyone here says makes fun of the people of the real Fargo (and I don’t even know where that is. I didn’t even know there was a real Fargo until I moved here). Besides, everyone says real Fargo is far away, and they all claim that no one here sounds like anyone in the movie, although they do sound like that all the time.

Heck, I’m beginning to even sound like that, like using the word “heck” and stuff, although my half brother Leif says I’ll never sound like I’m part of the Johnson Family because I have this snotty accent. And by snotty, he means British, but really, my accent isn’t British.

I speak English with a mixture of accents. I mostly learned English from American movies, but I also had tutors from what Crystal’s mother calls The Continent (it took forever for me to figure out that she meant Europe), and yes, a few British teachers as well. Plus, the base-line accent is Greek. Not modern Greek, but Ancient Greek, because, you know, my family invented it.

My dad invented it. Or part of it. Or at least he helped coin a few terms.

It’s hard to tell with my dad, because he lies all the time, except when he’s telling the truth. And usually the truth is harder to believe.

Like who my dad really is.

My dad is Zeus. Around here, they call him the Greek God Zeus, like there’s some other Zeus in the world.

There is only one Zeus. He’s my dad, and he’s a real pain in the rear most of the time, although when I said that to Mom shortly after arriving here, she pursed her lips together (which I would learn is something she does a lot when she disapproves) and reminded me that no matter what he does, he’s my father so I should show him some respect.

Yeah, whatever.

“You want me to drive you or not?” Eric asks. “Because if you sit here much longer, you’re going to be late.”

I sigh and open the car door, and this blast of totally frosty air hits me. I didn’t even have to get out to start shivering. I hate it that Eric’s right. I’m not sure how I can walk the six blocks to the shopping plaza without turning into some kind of gigantic blue ice cube.

I mean, it’s not like I’m dressed for this. I’m dressed for success, or at least, I’m dressed for success Johnson Family style.

Nine kids, all under the age of eighteen, two parents and only one with a full-time job. Even though Karl works as some kind of major project manager and has something called an engineering degree and gets paid pretty darn good (whatever that means), it doesn’t cover the cost of housing and feeding and dealing with all of us. Mom works part time in an accounting office (full time at tax season, whatever that means), but that doesn’t bring in enough to “make up the difference,” whatever that means.

Since I added a strain to their budget (and I do know what that means), I have to get a part-time job so I can start saving for school (whatever that means, since I’m already in school, not that I’m very good at it, because my education at Mount Olympus is nothing like my education here).

Which is all a long way of saying that what I’m wearing is a hand-me-down dress from my stepsister Lise (and the dang thing, while it’s a lovely sky blue, is one size too big for me) and panty hose that are all my own (and what a joy those things are [and Lise says no self-respecting teenager wears them, so I guess I’m not a self-respecting teenager]) and the only pair of dressy high heels that fit me (not that they really fit me; they’re one size too small because they’re my half sister Anna’s, which means they hurt like a son of a gun, as Karl would say).

“Last offer,” Eric says, “because I’m starting to get cold now.”

I look at him, and can’t really decide what the heck to do. Karl says you have to show up for a job interview looking like you don’t need the job, and Eric’s car screams I need money (at least, that’s what my half brother Ivan says). You can hear the car from miles away because it needs a muffler, and it needs a bumper and it needs—well, a lot of stuff. But Eric is giving it some TLC, which I don’t entirely understand but take to mean he’s trying to fix it, and—

“Screw it,” he says, and puts the car in drive. He starts to pull out, and I have to yank the door to close it, which is hard because there really is a wind, and it’s turning the door into a sail.

“Hey!” I say, because really, I can’t say much more given that I’m fighting with the door and something’s beeping and thank heavens I still have my seatbelt on.

“You don’t get a vote,” he says. “I’m driving you. You dithered.”

He has to stop before he pulls onto Caitlin Avenue, which is when I finally get the car door closed. I want to glare at him, but I’m still shivering and I think he might’ve saved my butt, since these heels aren’t that stable either.

He pulls onto Caitlin and I peer at the red brick buildings of the University of Wisconsin-Superior (which always look nice unlike the rest of the town, which needs paint) and then he turns onto Belknap Street and heads the few blocks toward the store.

It’s in this old plaza. There’s a grocery store “anchoring” it, at least that’s what Mom says, and a liquor store that’s been there “forever” (even though I don’t know how long forever could be since this town didn’t even exist until 1854, which certainly isn’t forever ago [and I know how old the town is because I had a stupid “forever” argument with Ivan, who’s ten and thinks he knows everything about everything, which I’m beginning to realize he doesn’t]).

There’s an AT&T store, which I keep wanting to go into, ever since my sister Crystal bought me and Tiff iPhones that our mothers made us give back, and a pizza place and a Subway across the parking lot, and a couple of other retail stores. One of them went out of business and a new one is opening, and it’s pretty easy to tell which one that is because it’s got a big sign on its only window that says, Now Hiring. Apply Online, which is exactly what I did (with Eric’s help).

The store is some kind of chain bargain store, at least that’s what Eric says, and he says they’re putting a toe into Superior to see if they want to open a big box store outside the city limits. I have no idea why a place that sells a little bit of everything wants to open a store outside of town that sells only large boxes, but hey, I don’t understand most things about this world I find myself in.

Eric seems to know that I’m nervous and he also seems to know that I don’t want anyone to see the car, so he parks behind Subway.

“Walk on over,” he says. “I’m getting a snack.” Then he smirks at me. “And don’t freeze.”

Sometimes he’s really nice, and sometimes he’s a real jerk, and sometimes he’s both at once.

Can you tell that I’m confused by just about everything? Including everyone in this town, I swear to God (as Anna always says before Mom tells her to stop swearing to anyone).

I get out and totter my way across the parking lot. Now I regret not having Eric’s coat no matter how terrible it would look. Every part of me is cold. And the wind reaches under my skirt like it works for my nephew Pan (who is waaaaaaay older than me, by the way, like by centuries).

I clutch the purse to my side, and the stupid bedazzled fake jewels are turning cold under my palm, which means that my hands are as cold as I think they are, which is just not a good thing.

I get to the sidewalk and almost trip climbing up the curb. Up close, the store looks dark and creepy and empty, but as I wonder if I should turn around, a woman opens the door.

“Are you Brittany Johnson?” she asks. I can barely see her through the gloom.

“Um, yeah,” I say, even though technically, I’m not a Johnson. Mom just decided to give me Karl’s last name to avoid the confusion. Because my birth certificate calls me Lundquist, which is Mom’s old last name, and Mom doesn’t want me explaining to everyone why all her other kids are Johnson and she has one Lundquist because no one in town, apparently, knows she gave birth “out of wedlock,” which is, I guess, something totally frowned on here.

(Pretty dang common where I come from. In fact, all except like a handful of my half siblings on my father’s side are the product of his wandering eye. His wife Hera has other choice words for us kids, which I don’t want to use. She doesn’t like the fact that he’s spent the past several thousand years fathering kids on other women, but she can’t really complain too much since her eye wanders too. Which I said to Mom once, and she held up her hands and said, I don’t want to hear it, Brittany, I really don’t in a tone I haven’t heard her use before or since.)

“Well, come on in,” the store lady says, “before we both freeze.”

I want to pump my hand in the air and say, Yes!, like Leif does when his favorite sports team scores, but I don’t. Instead I smile and slip inside.

The store is warm, and I let out a little sigh. It’s nice to be out of the wind.

It’s not dark and gloomy in here as it looked from the outside. It only seemed that way because the store lady has the lights off up front. Toward the back, there are lots and lots of fluorescent lights, and shelves that are in pieces, and boxes everywhere. Some tubby guy who’s older than Karl and wears a plaid shirt that makes Eric’s coat look stylish is piling even more boxes against a far wall.

The store lady smiles at me. She’s wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt that would actually look pretty good with my ugly purse. She has on no makeup (which is unusual around here), and her dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She pulls off some big gloves and extends a hand toward me.

“I’m Jill Larson,” she says. “I’m the manager here. And, I’ll be honest, I know your mom.”

Ah, nepotism. I know the word because it was the center of my life not too long ago. My dad excels at nepotism.

That’s why he chose me and Tiff and Crystal to become the Interim Fates. And that’s how we got approved. You see, my dad decided (in a fit of pique, Hera says) to get rid of true love, and he figured the best way to do that was to make the actual Fates step down.

The Fates are like the judges over life and all of magic and in that capacity also handle true love. And somehow (well, I know how, but for the sake of long-story-short), my dad convinced the Powers That Be (who are in charge of everything [and my dad was/is one of them, depending on whether or not he’s still being punished]) to fire the Fates and have them reapply for their old jobs.

Me, and Tiff and Crystal became Fates in the interim (hence Interim Fates) and we sucked at it. (Sorry, Mom. Sucked is the only word.) The only thing we did right was we didn’t let Daddy screw up true love. Somehow we blocked that. But the rest of it? Oh, man. Imagine if a first grader replaced Judge Judy.

So, nepotism. It’s like the story of my life.

Mrs. Larson smiles at me. (Mom told me I should always call adults by “Mr. or Mrs.” and their last name, to be respectful, even though a few women have corrected me and said that I should just call them Miz, which really confuses me.)

“Your mom,” Mrs. Larson says, “told me about—you know—your special circumstances.”

I frown at her. I’m not sure what special circumstances she means, although she did lower her voice. That, in the sideways speak of this strange town, sometimes means that the person who is talking doesn’t want anyone else to overhear the “sensitive” subject being raised.

“Um,” I say, feeling a blush start to warm my neck, “what, exactly, did Mom say?”

“Oh, you know. How she gave you up and then your family situation…well, you know…wasn’t ideal, and so she brought you back here.”

That blush climbed up my face and down my chest at the same time. I went from being too cold to being embarrassingly hot. (Or maybe that isn’t why I was embarrassed at all.)

“She’s a good woman, your mom,” Mrs. Larson says. “She also said you were brought up overseas, and you don’t know a lot about the US, but you’re a quick study.”

“Oh.” I can’t manage much more than that.

“She didn’t tell me, though, that you’re the spitting image of her at that same age. Your mom was the great beauty of our high school, doncha know, and she could’ve had any man, but that Karl Johnson, he had his eye on her. If it weren’t for the scheming of that Ava, his first wife—well, I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But your mom and Karl, they were meant for each other. They were prom king and queen, you know. I’ll bet she never told you that.”

“She didn’t,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I know about prom king and queen, partly because of the movie Carrie (both versions) and partly because of Never Been Kissed, one of my favorite movies of all time. Yes, I’m a romantic. Yes, my sisters tease me about it. (Yes, I miss them.)

“Well, they were, and oh, they were perfect together,” Mrs. Larson says, still talking about Mom and Karl. “But that’s neither here nor there. Your mom asked me to give you an interview, nothing more, and I’m going to do that, even though I’m doing all the talking. So, let’s head to my office, shall we?”

She turns around and weaves through the boxes. They’re all labeled, and none of them are really big, so I figure they’re going to supply the store rather than be the boxes that the store wants to sell outside of town.

But what do I know? I hadn’t really had to deal with stores much at all until I moved here. At Mount Olympus, I could wave my hand and conjure anything I want.

Megan, my counselor (yes, I have a counselor, and yes, she’s magic—kinda. Another long-story-short), she says that the ability to do magic from such a young age was corrupting me and Crystal and Tiff, and it’s good for us to live without it. Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from missing it.

Particularly now, when I’d use the magic to help me figure out how to deal with all the people and strangeness in Superior, Wisconsin.

Or maybe even in this building.

Mrs. Larson skirts around the last pile of boxes and goes into this tiny room in the back.

A plywood door separates it from the main part of the building (and yes, I know what plywood is, thanks to projects my siblings here are working on). Inside, the fluorescent lights are even brighter, making everything this kind of squinchy gray color.

There’s a metal desk that is too wide for the room (in my opinion), a big desk chair behind it, some cabinets that match, a trashy orange couch that looks even more uncomfortable than the couch at the Johnson Family Manse (which is what Karl calls their house), and one bright orange chair that looks like it was once a part of a kitchen set.

Mrs. Larson almost sits in the big desk chair, then seems to think the better of it. She grabs a yellow legal pad, rounds the desk, and waves her hand at the orange chair.

“Have a seat, Brittany,” she says, and it sounds friendly, not like a command at all. (And it’s really nice to hear someone use my full name.)

“Thanks.” I smooth the skirt as I sit. Lise will complain if I bring the dress back too wrinkled.

I’m about to set the purse on the floor, but as I look down, I realize the floor is covered with dust and goop and dried mud and something that looks like oil, and even though the purse is ugly, I don’t want to ruin it. Mom did work hard on it, after all.

So I hang the purse on my knee, which makes the fringe brush the top of my foot (which looks dumb, I know, but Mrs. Larson already knows I’m Not From Around Here).

Her smile is really friendly. She puts the legal pad on her lap. Then she writes my name along the top sheet of the pad.

“Okay, Brittany,” she says, “your application is pretty spare on details, so I’m going to ask a few questions.”

The application was spare on details because I can’t say a lot of things. Mom says that’s all right, because I’m so young, no one expects me to have a lot of experience, and those online applications are designed for adults.

I’m going to have to lie. Mom says lying is something we should all try to avoid, but she’s making a special case for me, because the truth is so unbelievable.

Still, I hate being in this situation. I’m really bad at lying.

I fold my hands together, and brace myself.

Here comes the hard part.

And, as usual, I’m probably going to screw it up something royal.

Read more in the next Interim Fates book, Brittany Bends, available from your favorite bookseller.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Called “The Reigning Queen of Paranormal Romance” by Best Reviews, bestselling author Kristine Grayson has made a name for herself publishing light, slightly off-skew romance novels about Greek Gods, fairy tale characters, and the modern world.

She writes romantic suspense as Kristine Dexter and historical mysteries as Kris Nelscott. She also writes in a variety of genre, from literary to science fiction to contemporary romance, under her real name—Kristine Kathryn Rusch. She has won dozens of awards for her writing

As Kristine Grayson, she also edits the romance volumes of Fiction River: An Original Anthology Magazine.

For more information about her work, go to the Kristine Grayson website and sign up for her newsletter.

Look for These Other Titles from Kristine Grayson

The Interim Fates:

Tiffany Tumbles

Crystal Caves

Brittany Bends

The Fates Trilogy:

Simply Irresistible

Absolutely Captivated

Totally Spellbound

Holiday Novellas:

Up on the Rooftop

Visions of Sugarplums

Dressed in Holiday Style

Sign up for the WMG Publishing newsletter to receive updates about new releases, bonus content and more at wmgpublishing.com

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

Brittany Bends Sample Chapter

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Look for These Other Titles from Kristine Grayson

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