“Secret.” Philip put his pudgy finger to his lip. “Shhh.”
My thumb pricked in warning.
Names are important. Ysabeau had told me that when she revealed Matthew’s many names to me.
You may call me Corra. My familiar, a firedrake who had been summoned when I cast my first spell, had been willing to share one of her names with me, though her phrasing made me wonder if it was her true name, the name that had the power to conjure her up from wherever she called home.
“Tell Daddy,” Philip said, bestowing his favor on his father.
Matthew knelt down, ready to listen.
“’Pollo,” Philip said.
The griffin beat his wings once, twice, and rose up from the ground, as if he had been waiting for a summons.
Metal hit stone, landing with a peal that seemed to announce something momentous had happened.
I looked down, searching for what had made the noise. A tiny silver arrowhead lay at Philip’s feet, its edges sharp.
Once airborne, the griffin hovered by Philip’s head, attentive to his master’s next command.
“Pollo?” Sarah frowned. “Doesn’t that mean chicken?”
“Apollo.” Matthew looked at me in alarm. “The goddess Diana’s twin.”
* * *
—
BECCA AND PHILIP WERE PLAYING on the fluffy sheepskin in our bedroom, content for the moment with blocks, a truck, and a herd of plastic horses.
The griffin was confined to the pantry.
“I think the ghosts have been trying to warn me about Apollo for days, with their constant prowling around the mythology section,” I said, pouring myself a glass of wine. I didn’t usually drink during the day, but these were exceptional circumstances.
“How much do you know about the goddess Diana’s brother?” Matthew asked.
“Not much,” I admitted, examining the small silver arrowhead. “There was something in one of Philippe’s books about him. Something about three powers.”
A luminous green-and-gold smudge by the fireplace took shape and morphed into my dead father-in-law.
“Gamper!” Becca said, showing him a horse.
Philippe smiled at his granddaughter and waggled his fingers. Then his expression turned serious.
“Constat secundum Porphyrii librum, quem Solem appellavit, triplicem esse potestatem, et eundem esse Solem apud superos, Liberum patrem in terris,” he said.
“According to Porphyry’s book, where he is called Sol, his power is threefold, and the same as Sol in the sky, the Father of Freedom on earth.” I translated the Latin as fast as I could. Apparently, I had skirted some unwritten magical law by not asking a direct question and was going to be able to get the rarest of all treasures: information from a ghost.
“Porphyry?” Matthew looked impressed. “When did you memorize that?”
“I didn’t. Your father helped me.” I gestured toward the children. “He likes to watch over them.”
“Et Apollinem apud inferos.” Philippe’s attention was locked on his grandson.
“And Apollo in hell,” I said numbly. The arrowhead gleamed in the sunshine, illuminating the golden and black threads that tied it to the world.
“Unde etiam tria insignia circa eius simulacrum videmus: lyram, quae nobis caelestis harmoniae imaginem monstrat; grypem, quae eum etiam terrenum numen ostendit,” Philippe continued.
“Therefore, three attributes can also be seen in his representations: a lyre, which figures celestial harmony; a griffin, which shows that he also has a terrestrial power.” The words I spoke sounded like an incantation, their ancient meaning resonating through the room.
“Et sagittas, quibus infernus deus et noxius indicatur, unde etiam Apollo dictus est,” Philippe said.
“And arrows, by which are symbolized that he is an infernal god, and harmful, which is why he is called the destroyer.” My fingers closed around the silver arrowhead that the griffin had given Philip.
“That does it.” Matthew sprang to his feet. “I don’t care what it is or how much Philip likes having him for a pet. The griffin goes.”
“Goes where?” I shook my head. “I don’t think we have any choice, Matthew. The griffin obeys Philip, not you or me. Apollo is here for a reason.”
“If that reason has anything to do with destruction, or that arrow point it dropped on the floor, then the griffin can find another home.” Matthew shook his head. “My son is not going to be a plaything for the gods—or the goddesses. This is her fault. I know it.”