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“Classical artwork?” Daisy says. She’s an accomplished artist. I would say she’s pretty familiar with a wide range of art. “Abstract art? Some statues can?—”
“It was a drawing,” Calliope answers.
“No,” Daisy says firmly. “No, I would not describe the inner end as conical. Artemis, have you seen any depictions like that?”
“I have not.” And I am not thinking about Apollo and his physicality. At all. “And if I saw a depiction that was conical, I’d have mentioned it as a public service.”
“However!” Daisy extends a finger like a professor making a point. “It’s my understanding that there are a wide range of appearances. Hercules might have a better idea of?—”
“Please do not ask my brother that.” Calliope’s voice is now a high whisper. “Daisy. Please.”
“I won’t! I was only offering, in case?—”
“I’m good,” Calliope insists. “I’m—it’s good. It’s all really good.”
“That artwork wasn’t,” Daisy says. “Unless the artist wasn’t concerned with?—”
“Let’s talk about your wedding!” shouts Calliope.
My torso aches with silent laughter an hour later, when we’re collecting our things for the party.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Daisy asks, her voice low. “You’re not worried about the party, are you?”
“I am completely unworried about the party,” I promise her. “It’s Calliope and Orion’s sixteenth. What could possibly go wrong?”
4
APOLLO
The meeting should have been fine.
It should have been fine.
This isn’t the first meeting I’ve taken with a sitting senator. It’s far from the first time I’ve had someone weasel their way onto my schedule at the last section. I’ve mediated conversations that take place in the back rooms of bars, at twenty-four hour diners, and once at the intermission of La Rondine at the Metropolitan Opera House.
But from the moment Walsh said I need to ask you a favor, I was fucked.
“Crickets,” I say to my steering wheel, and clench my hands as tight as I can. It’s not the ideal time to be driving in Manhattan, not personally and certainly not in terms of traffic. The traffic light stays red for so long that more bile creeps into the back of my throat, then slashes to green.
The meeting wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine. I watched from outside my body while I listened and nodded and took notes on a white legal pad. I texted Artemis with casual detachment. I remember briefly wondering if I could go into the hall in my spirit-form and beg Delphi for help. Time bent and expanded and skipped like a scratched DVD. I still don’t understand how it took so long.
And then, when it was finally over, I walked Senator Walsh to the door and shoved my notes into Delphi’s hands and said something that I know didn’t make any sense.
I’m supposed to be with my dad and my uncles and my cousins and my brothers getting ready for the party at an event space that’s been converted into spas and dressing rooms—some unbelievable level of luxury—for my aunts and my mom and my sisters and my cousin Daisy.
I can’t go there now.
I should have called for a driver and had Delphi get my tux from my apartment, but I didn’t do that, either.
I just need a few minutes alone, and I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I spend the entirety of the elevator trip up to my penthouse apartment pretending not to be nauseated, then turn the air conditioning down to fifty-five and stumble into the shower.
It doesn’t help.
