So little trust.

“Of course, Daddy. We’ll be fine.” Stella looks at me. “I’ll keep my eye on Phoebe.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, stabbing at a carrot.

Stella just smiles and shrugs.

I scowl.

This is how our uneasy truce works. She makes obnoxious remarks like that—it’s who she is. Queen of the cutting comments. Sometimes I let them slide. Sometimes I’m itching for a fight.

After the day I’ve had, my tolerance meter is on zero.

Focusing on one of the big fat kalamata olives on her plate, I picture a big ugly beetle. I know I can do this. I’m visualizing the olive turning into the beetle. I can see it. It’s going to—

The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

As I stare at the olive, suddenly little black legs that look like licorice laces pop out on each side and start to wiggle around. All right, so the legs aren’t even long enough to reach the plate. But still, it’s a success. I wanted the olive to become a beetle and it (kinda) did.

My powers control is definitely improving.

At least I didn’t conjure up real beetles or anything—

“Phoebe!” Damian roars.

I tear my eyes away from my success on Stella’s plate.

Crawling up Damian’s tie—and along his collar and out of his shirt pocket and over his cuff links—are real, live beetles.

“Good heavens,” Mom gasps.

Damian closes his eyes, his jaw clenched in clear loss of patience.

Not again. “Here, let me—”

“No,” Damian interrupts. “I’ll take care of them.”

He glows for a second and then the beetles are gone.

Why can’t I have that kind of easy control? I mean, I know he’s had a lifetime to learn, but just a little taste of containment would be nice.

“Damian, I’m sorry,” I say, giving him my best apologetic look. “I shouldn’t have tried to use my powers at the dinner table.”

“No, you should not have.” He releases a heavy sigh. When he opens his eyes, he smiles and picks up his fork. “Let’s continue our meal, shall we?”

I glare at Stella, as if this is all her fault.

On the outside, she’s all composure and highlights and happy, preppy chic. But her gray eyes are full of smug. Like my reaction—my botched powers usage—is exactly what she wanted. I think she enjoys our not-quite-sisterly sparring sessions as much as I do. Sometimes I think it’s more habit with us than actual dislike. Secretly—and I would never admit this under torture or threats of smoting or promises of ice cream—I actually kind of admire her. She never pretends to be anything but herself. Can’t say that about most people.

She grabs an olive—the legs now hanging limp—and says, “I think it’s lucky for all of us that you’re going to boot camp. Meal-time will be safe again.”

She pops the olive in her mouth and I’m only partly satisfied by the disgusted look on her face. The rest of me is still disappointed that my success turned to failure so quickly.

As much as Stella’s snarky comment about boot camp bugs me, I know that controlling my powers is really important.

I’m tired of being a supernatural hazard.

After dinner, I retreat to my room and my laptop. I call up my IM chat and am relieved to find Nola and Cesca online. If anyone can cheer me up it’s my two best friends.

LostPhoebe: hi girls!

PrincessCesca: Phoebe!

GranolaGrrl: we’ve been waiting for you forever

LostPhoebe: what’s up?

PrincessCesca: we have exciting news

PrincessCesca: I got a summer internship with A La Mode magazine

PrincessCesca: in PARIS!!!

LostPhoebe: omg Paris?!? awesome

PrincessCesca: tell me about it

LostPhoebe: when does it start?

PrincessCesca: the end of the month

LostPhoebe: maybe I can visit you

Paris is only a three-and-a-half hour flight from Athens, and Athens is only a three-hour ferry ride from Serifos—the next island over. I bet once I pass the test I can sneak away for a quick visit. Of course that implies that I pass the test and don’t end up hanging from some medieval torture device in the dungeon. With all my other distractions, that’s nowhere near a sure thing.

For now, though, I’m just excited for Cesca. I know how much she loves Paris and fashion. This is perfect for her.

LostPhoebe: that’s so awesome C!

PrincessCesca: thanks

PrincessCesca: I’m beyond excited

LostPhoebe: what’s your news N?

GranolaGrrl: I might get a summer research grant from Berkeley

LostPhoebe: cool. what are you going to research?

GranolaGrrl: native cycladian flora

LostPhoebe: English please?

GranolaGrrl: the flowers of Serfopoula

LostPhoebe: OMG! does that mean you’d be coming here?

GranolaGrrl: yes!

GranolaGrrl: *if* I get the grant

I haven’t seen Nola and Cesca since Mom and Damian’s wedding last December. There was talk of me spending part of the summer with Yia Yia Minta in L.A. or maybe visiting Aunt Megan in San Francisco, but when the Pythian Games trials came up, those plans got put on hold. If Griffin and I make the team, then we’ll be training all summer for the games in late August. This is a once-every-four-years opportunity, so I can’t just toss it aside.

But if Cesca is as close as Paris and Nola comes to Serfopoula itself, then it won’t matter if I can’t get to Cali.