“Dynamotheos Development Camp,” Damian explains. “A training intensive for students who have not yet mastered control over their powers.”

“And you think Phoebe needs this camp?”

Where has Mom been the last few months? I mean, I know she’s been wrapped up in honeymoon planning and the idea of starting a part-time therapy practice in the village, but she can’t have missed all of my powers-related disasters. Especially not the one that involved her bedroom turning into a Roman bath for a day and a half.

Next on the paper is a supplies checklist.

All campers will need to bring the following items:

comfortable athletic clothing

Not a problem since that’s pretty much all I own.

spiral notebook

writing utensil (pen or pencil only, no markers or crayons)

positive attitude

I roll my eyes. A positive attitude? What is this, cheer camp? And what’s up with the no-crayons thing? Is that really a problem? I don’t think I’ve even seen a crayon since elementary school.

“Her control has not progressed as quickly as I’d hoped,” Damian says. “I think she will benefit from the intense training of the camp.”

“What do you think, Phoebola?” Mom asks.

I look up, startled. It’s been so long since someone actually asked me my opinion on something that affects my own life that I’m not sure how to answer.

“Um . . .” I say, buying time to come up with a response. “I think Damian’s right. I’m a danger to society. My lack of control pretty much sucks. Unless you like waking up to a bedroom snowstorm.”

That taught me a lesson about wishing for air-conditioning. An island breeze through an open window will do just fine.

“That was certainly a chilly surprise,” Mom says. “It wasn’t dangerous, though. None of your . . . mishaps have caused lasting harm.”

“Not yet,” I agree. “But what about the next time? Or the time after that? Or the time after that? If I don’t get my powers under control, there’s always the chance someone might get hurt.”

And I might get smoted for it.

“If you think that’s what you need,” Mom says, though she still looks worried. “I don’t want you to spend the whole summer working. You need to have fun, too.”

“I will,” I promise. “I can focus on fun and the Pythian Games as soon as I pass the stupid test.”

“What test?” She looks at Damian. “What test?”

Jeez, didn’t Damian tell Mom anything about this? He can explain while I finish reading the flyer.

On the first day of camp we will meet in the Academy courtyard at 10 A.M. Camp will dismiss at 4 P.M. Lunch will be provided. Extra-camp tutorials will be scheduled at counselor discretion for campers needing additional or personalized help. Counselors will wait with campers needing to be picked up on the front steps.

Needing to be picked up? Some of the other campers must be pretty bad off if they can’t even go home without an escort. I must not be in as bad shape as I thought.

“The gods are concerned by Phoebe’s lack of control,” Damian says in his headmaster tone. “They have decided she must pass a test before she can continue her studies.”

“What kind of test?” Mom asks.

“I am not certain.” Damian clears his throat. “In my only prior experience with such a situation, the gods placed the student in a situation designed to push his restraint to the limit.”

“And what happens if she doesn’t pass this test?”

I look up when Mom asks this because I want to know the answer, too. Surely he won’t be quite as evasive with her.

He doesn’t get the chance.

“Evening, everyone,” Stella singsongs as she flounces into the room. She drops her giant pink purse—the Pepto color makes me want to retch—on the buffet table and slides into her seat across from me.

“You’re late,” Damian says, giving her a stern look. He’s good at stern looks, a talent I enjoy more when they’re directed at Stella than at me.

“Dara and I were going over a few last-minute details for tomorrow.” She flashes him her best I-can-do-no-wrong smile. “You wouldn’t want us to be unprepared, would you?”

Before he can answer—though I know he would totally say, “Of course not”—Hesper sweeps into the room with a tray full of food.

“Mmm, it smells wonderful,” Stella says. “Psaria plaki?”

Hesper just hums in agreement as she sets plates down for each of us. Arranged on the oval plate is a colorful bed of chopped vegetables—bright orange carrots, lime-green leeks, and warm yellow potatoes—under a whole fish. And by whole fish, I mean the who-o-ole fish. Eyes, gills, and tail included.

I suppress a shudder and wonder if moving the carrots and potatoes around on the plate will make it look like I ate the fish. From the skeptical look the fish is giving me, I doubt it.

As Hesper leaves with the empty tray, Damian asks, “I trust you girls will manage all right on your own while we are gone?”

We’ve been going over this in a dozen different ways ever since they booked the trip back in January. It’s not like Stella and I aren’t adults. Stella’s going to be at Oxford in the fall, and if I hadn’t decided to stick around for Level 13, I’d be halfway to USC. I can even vote in the next election by absentee ballot. Not that I can convince Mom and Damian. They seem to think we’re still in junior high and totally incapable of surviving sans chaperone without either killing ourselves or each other.