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Twice, I stopped to catch my breath, hugging the side of the road while a group of Olympus-dwellers passed by. I wasn’t sure what they were—minor gods? nature spirits?—but they didn’t seem to notice me. They just drifted past in their shiny golden robes, tittering and chatting in ancient Greek and basically looking like they lived inside a permanent “supernatural beauty” camera filter.
Annabeth’s cap must have been doing its job. I was either invisible to the locals or appeared too unimportant to mess with. That was good, because the longer I wore the hat, the worse the itchy sensation got. My skin felt like it was baking into crispy pork rind. I wondered how Annabeth dealt with this, and also whether Olympus had any pharmacies that sold cortisone cream.
At least the Olympian streets weren’t busy. A couple of chariots were in line at the drive-through window of Sagittarius Coffee. A Hephaestus-made steampunk rhinoceros thing was trundling along the street, power-washing the cobblestones with blasts of steam from its snout. In the park gazebo, a sign readOPEN MIC HOT POETRY WITH ERATO! TONIGHT ONLY! But at the moment, the gardens were empty except for a few pigeons. (Because yes, even Mount Olympus has pigeons.)
I followed Grover’s directions to the side entrance of Zeus’s palace: Left at the big white oak tree, follow the bed of lilies until I found the two poplar trees. Take a right and look for the wall of jasmine. When your best friend is a satyr, you learn a lot about trees and plants. That’s how they see the world, so it’s also how they give directions.
The chalice helped, pulling me along ever more insistently the closer we got to Ganymede. At least, I hoped that was where it was leading me, and not to the nearest godly high school cafeteria so I could top off everyone’s beverages.
I ended up in an alley at the base of a tall cliff. Far above rose the foundations of an enormous white palace—Chez Zeus, I presumed. Sure enough, the wall in front of me was covered with flowering jasmine, except for a small door inlaid with fancy bronze designs. Even the alleys are high-class on Mount Olympus.
I did theshave and a haircutknock.
The door creaked open. The woman who poked her head out had a hairdo like a tornado funnel. Her eyes were gray and stormy, her face ageless, her scent like oncoming rain. She couldn’t have been more clearly a cloud nymph if she’d had a name tag that saidHELLO!MY NAME IS CLOUD NYMPH.
“Naomi?” I guessed.
“You brought donuts?” she asked.
“Oh, um... no.”
“You smell like mochi donuts.”
“That’s because... Never mind. I’m actually a friend of Maron’s.”
She snorted. “No, you’re not. Maron doesn’t have friends.”
“True. But Iama friend of Grover Underwood’s. He said—”
“Come in.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen.
I’m not sure what I expected in a godly kitchen. If I’m being honest, I’d never considered whether the gods evenhadkitchens. I mean, they could snap their fingers and create anything they wanted. Why go to the fuss of having someone cook for you?
Now, as I looked at all the nymphs rushing from oven to stovetop, pulling cloud-stuff out of the air and mixing it into their soups and pies like strands of cotton candy, I realized that the gods wouldwantservants fussing around, making things for them, the same way they liked it when mortals burned offerings. It was all about being noticed, attended,catered to. Gods ate the spotlight more than they ate nectar and ambrosia. Of course they would insist things be done the hard way.
About twenty nymphs were at work, all wearing white aprons, with black nets around their billowy hair. Their legs were just wisps of cloud, probably so they could move faster. Their nebulous dresses were stained with various soups, broths, and glazes, so they looked like colorful sunsets.
The kitchen itself was bigger than my high school gym, and dryads kept popping in and out of the bronze double doors, carrying platters of food into the dining room beyond. As the doors opened, I heard voices I recognized: Zeus’s booming baritone, Hera’s laughter. Oh, great. My favorite goddess.
As I had feared, the chefs were cooking up all the usual brunch horrors: eggs Benedict with neon-orange hollandaise sauce, steaks with eggs, soufflés. Yep, there were even a few Mr. Crunchys, along with French toast, bacon burgers, and pineapple pizza, because why not? Let brunch chaos reign.
Naomi studied me with the same distrustful expression I was giving the food.
“So why did Grover...?” Her voice trailed off as I showed her the chalice. “I see. You’re not supposed to have that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
She scratched under her hairnet. “Are you a god, then?”
A line from an old movie flitted through my head:When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes!
I said, “No.”
“Right.” She hesitated. “This would explain why Ganymede is out there sweating Greek fire.”
“I can’t really comment,” I said. “But if you could signal him to come in here—”
“Oh, no.” Naomi folded her arms. She scowled at Annabeth’s Yankees cap in a way that made me think invisibility hats were rude in her kitchen and also ineffective. “I will pretend I don’t see you. Nobody will bother you in here. But if you want to get Ganymede’s attention, you’ll have to do it yourself. He’s right through there.” She pointed at the double doors. “Can’t miss him. He’s the one sweating—”
