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sentenced to a stretch in the hottest, driest desert they could find.
    Movement behind the desk catches my eye.
    A flutter of wings. The golden eagle sits on a golden perch—shocking—right behind Zeus’s shoulder. The bird preens a bit, rubbing a wing over its beak. When it straightens upright, I swear it looks right at me.
    From the seemingly vast space across the room, I hold my breath, waiting for the eagle to squawk and draw my great-grandfather’s attention to the intruder standing frozen in the doorway. Just my luck, too, being caught by something as stupid as a bird.
    But the squawk never comes. Zeus stays bent over the papers on his desk, scribbling on some, slidingthem into piles, and shuffling them around. I can hear the scratch of his quill on parchment, scrape, scrape, scraping like the sound of steel dragging on concrete.
    I rack my brain for an excuse, a reason to be where I am—where I most definitely shouldn’t be. I’m on a quest? I’m lost? I’m looking for the bathroom?
    None of them even sound good in my mind, which means they’ll sound worse if I speak them out loud.
    I have to get out of here. I should slip back out the way I came in and get the heck off Mount Olympus. I know that means I won’t get the feather—at least, not today. It also means I won’t get caught, and I can’t exactly complete the quest and go back in time if I’m chained up in the dungeons of Mount Olympus. Besides, those dungeons smell awful.
    I’m about to reach behind me to grab the door, my escape plan in effect, when the sound of snapping fingers stops me.
    I look up, expecting to see Zeus glaring at me, waiting for his guards to show up to haul me away. But my great-grandfather hasn’t looked up from his papers. He snaps his fingers again and points at the golden chalice sitting at the corner of his desk.
    Then he returns his focus to his papers and I stand there staring. And blinking.
    Is he serious? He wants me to fill his chalice?
    My mind snaps the pieces into place. He must think I’m a serving girl, come to attend his every need. I couldn’t do it, could I?
    I scan the room and spot the large pitcher on a side table. That would mean crossing to the side table, leaving myself vulnerable in the middle of the room, and then walking up next to him at his desk. Next to him. It’s a stupid idea. It’s a risky, ridiculous, moronic idea.
    I’m heading for the pitcher before I can talk myself out of it.
    As I wrap my hand around the handle I am overcome by the sweet scent of ambrosia. I haven’t smelled the stuff in years—not since the incident, when ambrosia sealed my parents’ fate—but the sense memory is overwhelming. There is a reason the gods love this stuff.
    Taking a quick breath, I lift the pitcher and carry it over to the desk. My legs are shaking. So are my hands. My everything is shaking as I walk up next to my great-grandfather.
    This is bad. So very bad.
    I know this, but at the same time the adrenaline is rushing my bloodstream, filling me with the thrill of danger. I’ve never been much of an adrenaline junkie—I prefer nonterrifying rebellion—but I have to admit, I’m almost as excited as I am scared.
    Holding the pitcher out over the desk, over the chalice, I hope Zeus doesn’t notice the hands of his serving girl are shaking like a kid with monsters under the bed.
    As the amber liquid pours from the heavy pitcher into the empty golden chalice, I try to stay back, out of Zeus’s peripheral vision. The last thing I need is him noticing anything about me—although you would think his serving girls don’t usually wear studded bracelets and combat boots. But I guess he’s absorbed in his work, because he ignores me.
    The eagle is on his other side.
    I lean back around the chair, trying to reach the long tail feathers without spilling ambrosia all over the very important