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The goddess sounded weirdly desperate to please. It occurred to me that Blanche had found a novel strategy to get a godly parent’s attention: complete indifference. It pained Iris to see her child so obsessed with monochrome.
I wondered if that approach would work for me. If I moved to the Sahara Desert and feigned a hatred for water, would Poseidon start shipping me presents: fish tanks, swimming pools, brochures for ocean cruises...?
Nah, probably not.
“I want you to listen to them,” Blanche said, jabbing a thumb in our direction. “They’re going to sound like they’re accusing you of theft.”
Iris went dangerously still. “Excuse me?”
“But they just want information. Don’t zap them. Don’t curse them. Just... try to help them, okay? That’s the favor.”
Iris studied us more carefully. I tried to look unworthy of zapping.
Finally, the goddess sighed. “Very well, dear. Foryou.” Her voice took on a sweeter, slightly pleading tone. “And then maybe we could do something together? BingeWandaVision?”
“Sounds great, Ma. I’ll message you.” Blanche turned to us. “I’m outta here, then. Good luck. And remember our deal.”
Annabeth nodded. “Grover will be there.”
Grover yelped. “Be where?”
“My studio.” Blanche handed him a business card. “Next week. For a series of still shots. Been trying to line you up forever, but you play hard to get.”
Grover’s jaw dropped down to basement level. Blanche trudged off through the market, no doubt looking for sickly weeds and dead rats to immortalize with her lens.
“Well then,” Iris said to us, “let’s hear what you supposedly think I stole. And I will do my best to help... or at least not kill you.”
Color me excited.
We told the goddess about our adventures so far. I’ll give this to Iris: she was a good listener. Gods tend to be pretty impatient with mortal problems, but I guess since Iris was a messenger, she’d had to learn to pay attention to what people said.
When I mentioned Ganymede’s missing chalice, she grimaced like she’d gotten a crystal shard stuck somewhere uncomfortable. When we described our time in Hebe Jeebies, Iris closed her eyes and sighed like,Gods, give me patience.Except, of course, she was one of the gods, and I wasn’t sure if praying to yourself would work.
“Obviously, we don’t think you took the chalice,” Annabeth concluded. “That would be silly.”
“Though if youdid,” Grover said, “we’d love to get it back.”
Annabeth frowned at him. Grover didn’t seem to notice. He had a photogenic glow to him, like now that he was a portrait model for Blanche, he was invulnerable.
“But of course you didn’t take it,” I said to the goddess. “Did you?”
I didn’t mean to put the question mark on the last part. It just kind of slipped out.
Iris pursed her lips. She ran her fingers across the crystal pendants on display, sending fresh bursts of colored light dancing through the market. I had the uncomfortable feeling that with just a thought, she could turn all those light beams into lasers and cut us into demigod mincemeat.
“Do you have any idea how thankless a cupbearer’s job is?” she asked.
I recalled Ganymede obsessively walking around my school cafeteria, filling people’s cups and cans with Olympian beverage number five.
“Doesn’t seem like fun,” I admitted.
“No, Percy Jackson. Not fun.”
That was the first indication that she remembered me, or at least knew my name. The information did not make me feel any safer.
“So,” I said, “the chalice isn’t something you’d want back. Like, not even to mess with Ganymede.”
This time I managed not to make it sound like a question. But Iris still looked miffed. Nothing is scarier than a hippie grandmother suddenly scowling at you.
