“How did you get this call number?” she asks. “It’s not student-accessible in ECHO.”

I shrug as I blink away the moisture. “Someone left that note at my door.”

“I always say there are exceptions to every rule, honey.” She types another quick sequence, turns the monitor to face me, and says, “You have every right to see this.”

Nicole hurries around to look over my shoulder as I quickly scan the entry on the screen.

Collection: Mt. Olympus Archives

Title: Council Court Minutes

Topic: Proceedings of the Trial of Nicholas Andrew Castro

Copies: 1

Call Number: X∑ 597.11 FL76

Location: B2-S18D

My heart thuds into my throat.

The record of my dad’s trial? I didn’t even know there had been a trial. I thought the gods just decided among themselves to punish him. If there was a trial, maybe there was testimony or interviews or some kind of documentation to prove that Dad hadn’t just sacrificed everything for a sport.

“Follow me, girls,” Mrs. Philipoulos says, grabbing a set of keys from her desk drawer.

“I can’t believe it,” I say to Nicole as we follow Mrs. Philipoulos through the doorway that leads to the stacks. “The record of my dad’s trial. I didn’t know they kept that sort of record.”

I’d heard about the “secret” collection—everyone has. But I had no idea what they held.

“Neither did I.” Nicole’s voice sounds strange.

When I look, she’s staring straight ahead, her eyes completely blank. Without question I know what she’s thinking about: the trial where her and Griffin’s parents got banished. The trial over something she and Griffin did, and for which their parents were punished. Though she and Griff are finally friends again after years of hating each other over it, I know it still kills them inside. I can see it sometimes when Griffin runs. His bright blue eyes get a faraway look and I know he’s thinking about his parents. My heart breaks every time.

As we reach the end of one row of stacks, Mrs. Philipoulos stops in front of a janitor’s closet and whips around to face us.

“What I am going to show you,” she says, sounding very ominous, “you are not to breathe a word about to another living soul.” She starts to turn around and then spins back. “Or a dead one.”

Nicole and I exchange raised eyebrows.

Mrs. Philipoulos unlocks the janitor’s closet and walks inside. When we don’t follow, she leans her head back out and says, “What are you waiting for?” She waves us inside. “This way.”

Nicole raises her finger to her temple and makes the universal sign for nutso. But really, what have we got to lose?

I shrug and take a step into the closet. As soon as we’re both inside, Mrs. Philipoulos pulls the door shut. While we’re surrounded by darkness I hear a bit of a shuffle. Something falls over, crashing to the floor.

“Drat!” Mrs. Philipoulos snaps. “Who put that mop there? Ah, here we go.”

I hear a soft click. All at once the tiny closet is bathed in soft light. And it starts to move. Down.

“Whoa,” Nicole gasps. “There’s a sub-sublevel?”

Mrs. Philipoulos winks at her.

Seconds later, the closet stops moving and Mrs. Philipoulos reaches for the handle. “Remember, girls,” she says, turning the handle. “You were never here.”

“Oh. My. Gods.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a whole other level that spreads out beneath the school. With just as many rows and rows of bookshelves as the floor above. And every last shelf is full.

“Are these all records from Mount Olympus?” Nicole asks, gaping just as seriously as I am.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Philipoulos says, as if that’s the most ridiculous thing that’s been said all day. “Most of these are from the Library of Alexandria.”

“The Library of Alexandria?” I ask. “Didn’t that burn down?”

Mrs. Philipoulos scoffs. “Damn fool Hypatia. Athena tried to convince her to install a sprinkler system. But no-o-o, no one was going to tell the librarinatrix how to run her library.” As she starts stomping down one aisle, she adds, “Athena saved the collection before it turned to ash, but she couldn’t exactly advertise the fact, could she? So, we keep it protected here.”

As we hurry past shelf after shelf of ancient books and scrolls and papers, bound in various earthy shades of leather and smelling like dirt and mold and century upon century of history, I try to catch a few titles. The Complete Plays of Sophocles. Plato’s Early Writings . Chronicle of the Trojan War. Wow.

Behind me, Nicole gasps. I notice her stop and stare at a book. She runs her fingertips reverently over the burgundy leather spine before tugging it out. Mrs. Philipoulos doesn’t notice, but I have a feeling she would freak out a little if she saw Nicole grabbing something off the shelf. I try to distract her.

“How do you keep track of it all?” I ask.

“Hephaestus designed an amazing computer system that scans, categorizes, and keeps track of every document.” She keeps hurrying down the aisle, getting farther and farther from Nicole. “He’s not just the god of blacksmithing, you know.”

“Yeah,” I say, picturing his computer-geeky descendants. “I know.”

“Aha!” she explains, pulling to stop. “Here we go. Shelf B2-S18D.”