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felt greasy.
    “I don’t mind it,” Antigone said. “Better than the cold.”
    Cyrus watched Rupert move down the stone stairs toward the huge courtyard lawn flanked by hulking stone buildings. In the center of the lawn, the towering fountain was steaming as it churned. All over the lawn, in tight regimented rows, Acolytes were erecting canvas tents.
    “What’s going on?” Cyrus asked. “Did I miss something?”
    “Preparations,” a voice said behind Cyrus. He wheeled around. Dennis Gilly stood beside the big wooden doors, sweating in his porter’s suit and the bowler hat he had tied on with a ribbon beneath his chin. He wasn’t nearly as pimply as when they’d first met him, but he’d hardly grown in the last year. “Mr. Greeves has ordered all Acolytes out of quarters. The staff are expecting a great number of guests who require quarters in isolation.”
    “Smiths!” Rupert shouted. He was already striding away along a gravel walk.
    “See ya, Dennis,” Antigone said. Dennis nodded and touched his sweat-slick nose.
    Cyrus and Antigone jogged down the stairs and ran to catch up to Rupert. Two Acolytes shrieked past, laughing and wrestling over an old bloated football.
    “Rupe,” said Cyrus. “When Gil was storming out of Mom’s room, he said he wouldn’t play football again. What did he mean? Why would he have to play football?”
    Rupert smiled. They were nearing the shade of a covered stone walkway. “After that whole scene, that’s what you’re wondering about?”
    “No,” said Cyrus. “I want to know why the courtyard is all of a sudden a huge campground, and I want to know if more Gils are going to show up, and I want to know what Arachne’s deal is, and I want to talk you into taking me on your next trek. But if I bring any of that up,you’ll probably just tell me to shut up and wait till we’re in our rooms.”
    Rupert laughed. “All right, then. Money is complicated for a transmortal. Think about it. They tend to have the needs of mortals, but without the mortality. Just because they don’t die doesn’t mean they’re wealthy enough to feed themselves and clothe themselves and shelter themselves
forever
. Mortals retire when they think they have enough money to care for themselves until death. But when there is no death, there’s never enough money. Gil recently lost a great deal of his worth, and in the recent past, whenever he’s run out of money—all the way out of money—he’s made up a new identity and played professional football. He’s actually in the Hall of Fame under two different names. Apparently he doesn’t want to do it again. It’s usually best if he waits a decade or so between careers.”
    “Bizarre,” Cyrus said.
    Rupert laughed. “You have no idea.”
    Their three sets of feet stopped crunching gravel and began scuffing along paving stones. The shade wasn’t any cooler than the sun.
    “I don’t care about football,” Antigone said. “And I don’t care about Gil, as long as he stays away from us and from Mom. I want to know why the sign of the Smiths is three heads.”
    Rupert stopped at a battered door set into a rough stone wall. For Cyrus, opening that door always tooktwo hands and a braced foot. Rupert jerked on an iron ring with one hand and the door squealed open. “The three severed heads?” Rupert asked. “Who told you about them? Did you see it in a book?”
    “Severed?” Antigone grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
    Inside the doorway, stairs curled up in a spiral. “Yes, severed,” said Rupert, smiling. “It’s a grim crest and a famous one. The Order expunged it almost a century ago, but it’s still in all the books and stories. Expunging history is harder than some committees might think.” Rupert gestured for Antigone to go first, and she began to climb. Cyrus followed. The stairs were as dank as ever, but beautifully cool once the door banged shut behind them. Rupert’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
    “For the last