to a small backyard buried in withering branches and dry leaves, as if

spring never happened here.

In the last couple of days I’ve learned to trust my gut more than

ever, and right now I get a familiar coil, like when we went down the

well. I pay attention to every twig we snap, the traffic nearby, the

unsettling quiet from the house.

Kurt stands on a crate with his hands cupped against a window. It

gives out under his weight, and he’s left kicking it off his foot.

There’s a marble water fountain in the center of the backyard

beneath a big, fat tree. Fresh green leaves float in the basin that

fills up with the spit of the chubby merbaby. His tail coils behind

him, and he’s wrestling an equally fat fish with sharp teeth. “Talk

about ugly babies.”

Then there’s a loud snap.

The ground is rising around me.

My foot is caught in something beneath the leaves. Kurt tries to

knock me out of the way, but we don’t make it and we’re hoisted into

the air in a thick, itchy net.

“A fish net?” I shout. “Really?”

This is a lot closer to Kurt that I’ve ever been before.

“I think it’s safe to say the historian is alive.”

“Watch the hands!”

“I don’t have anywhere else to put them, do I?”

A door slams open and someone shuffles out. Every breath he takes

comes back out in a heavy wheeze. The net spins with our weight so all

I can see is a mane of white hair and a cane.

“By King Karanos,” Kurt says, “you will let us down this instant!”

“Yo, stop poking me.”

The old man laughs. He holds out his hand to stop us from

spinning. Muddy green eyes squint at us. “You’re in no position to be

making threats.”

“We’re looking for someone,” I say. Then add, “And we have

presents.”

“What kind of presents?” He gets close up to my face and looks

into my eyes. His eyebrows are like fuzzy white caterpillars crawling

in opposite directions. He gasps like I’m the ghost instead of him.

“You’re the son of the king.”

“No. I’m his grandson. Are you Gregorious?”

He shakes his head. “No one calls me that anymore.”

“What do they call you?”

He shakes his head, tsk-tsk-tsking away. Hand pushing hair back,

cane tapping dry dirt. He makes to turn away, then hunches down to our

faces once again. “Nope. No court politics. Not on my doorstep.”

“Please,” I say. “You’re a historian, right? Aren’t you supposed

to, like, keep track of important things? You must know of the

championship to the throne. I have the quartz scepter.”

“And, Lady Maia made you breakfast .” Kurt says “breakfast” like

it’s the eighth wonder of the world, which in our house it pretty much

is.

The old man taps his finger on his thin lips thoughtfully. “Very

well. But you’ll have to cut yourselves down. I’ll put on the kettle.”

“Is he serious?” I whisper.

Kurt is trying his best to sit up, but his foot slips and his

weight crushes my sensitive areas. “Your hand is closer to my dagger.”

“Can’t. Breathe.”

“Swear by the seas you will not utter a word of this to anyone.”

“My pleasure.” I manage to pull out his dagger and start cutting

our way out until the net rips open enough and we fall on the dried

branches on the ground.

The back door is open. Stringy broken cobwebs hang from the door

like a curtain.

“Come on.” Kurt pulls me up. “Before he changes his mind.”

The back door leads to a kitchen that smells like bath salts and

moldy library books.

Flowery wallpaper fades in splotches. Naked bulbs hang from nests

of red and blue wires. Every step we take seems to rattle the

foundation. The table is a plastic patio set complete with an open

umbrella. Stacks and stacks of brittle paper cover every surface, even

the floors leading to the living room. I thumb through a stack right

in front of me, and the old man smacks my hand away.

“Sit.” No-One-Calls-Me-That-Anymore-Gregorious sets down three

chipped china cups, a tiny blue flower bulb at the bottom of each.

I point to the umbrella. “That’s bad luck, you know.”

“What does an old man like me need luck for, anyway?” When he

pours in the steaming water, the flower blooms. Blue bleeds from the

petals into the water and releases a whiff of mint.

“Where did you find blue poseidonia?”

The old man gets up close to Kurt’s face until Kurt is so

uncomfortable that he leans back. “I have my ways. Now, where is my

gift?”

I take out the plastic containers, one full of a stack of pancakes

and another with bacon. His white eyebrows wiggle as he opens the

container and dives right in with his twiggy fingers.

As soon as I take a sip of the tea, I gag. “This tastes like

feet.”

Gregorious smacks the back of my head. “ Bah . It’s the best tea

for healthy, slick scales. Drink up.”

I do, just to keep him quiet. “So, if your name isn’t Gregorious,

then what is it?”

“It’s Greg. I’ve assimilated to this shore. Now. Tell me why

you’ve come here. I’ve paid my tithes, if you’re here collecting.”

I burn my tongue on a big sip. “You weren’t on Arion’s ship last

week with the others.”

“Because this visit isn’t real.” He jabs my chest with his bony

finger.

“Uh-there’s a pretty real island floating off the coast of Coney

Island.”

His fist comes down on the table. “I paid my tithe sixteen years

ago when Toliss made its scheduled stop. Championship. ” He says the

last word like a curse. “Never in my days.”

“I take it you don’t agree with the king’s decision.” Kurt licks

his lips and helps himself to more water.

“It’s why he released me from my position as Head Keeper in our

Hall of Records. Among other things.”

Kurt and I exchange skeptical glances. “You mean to say that the

king planned for this championship even before Tristan was born?”

Gregorious-Greg scratches his head. His hands are jittery as he

crosses and uncrosses his fingers. I follow his stare to a row of

clear bottles lined up on the cabinet. He licks his lips with a very

blue tongue. “The line of kings has been unbroken since your ancestor

Trianos united the trident pieces, therefore unifying our realm.”

Sweet. Go, ancestor Trianos. “If my grandfather just gives me the

throne, wouldn’t it cause a civil war?”

His eyes go to the bottles in the cabinet, then to me. “Show me

the scepter.”

I take it out of my backpack, still nestled in my sternum harness.

When I hold it, it glows bright, then goes dead.

“Good,” he says. “Very good.”

I don’t get it. “What’s very good?”

“The other two are still out there? That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

Greg stands. Goes to the window. The hinges of the cabinet squeak

as he opens them. He takes one of the bottles and tips the clear

liquid into his teacup. He doesn’t offer it to us. Then he drinks.

I look to Kurt who shrugs and proceeds to eat the smelly blue

flowers in our cups.

When I look at Greg again, the change in him is so subtle that

anyone else might miss it. The muddy green of his eyes becomes

brighter, more emerald. His skin less yellow. Even his hands have

stopped trembling.

“What is that?” I ask.

Kurt elbows me.

Greg bats a hand in the air. “Medicine. This body isn’t what it

used to be.”

“O-kay,” I say. “Well, now that you know who I am and what I’m

doing, I was hoping you could share anything that would help us find

an oracle.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, child. I have nothing to do with