“Homer, could you keep Dido out here?” Pandy said. “We’ll stow our stuff and then we’ll go to the main tent for evening meal.”

  “Like . . . take your time.”

  He dropped to the ground, resting against one of the tent’s support poles. No one noticed his eyelids slamming shut or heard the beginnings of a soft snore.

  “By the way, there’s one group of people speaking Abyssinian that think we’re gods,” said Iole, stepping into the tent.

  “Yeah, well two hairy guys speaking a Norse dialect want us hung by our toes,” said Pandy.

  “So it evens out,” said Alcie.

  The tent was much roomier inside than it had appeared. It was filled with ornate, blocky wooden carvings, simple brass oil lamps, a metal rack from which hung several heavy-looking feathered dresses, and about ten large green birds perched on a carved wooden tree. A huge hammock had been strung from one support pole to another, heavily laden with silk and cotton cushions. Three sleeping pallets were being hastily made up by two of the most grotesque creatures Pandy had ever seen. One had a mouth that covered the entire bottom half of her face and was making a sort of sucking sound, and the other had two extra bumps on her shoulders, almost like two extra necks, and a mouth full of three separate rows of teeth.

  “Thank you, Scylla. Thank you, Charybdis,” said Usumacinta, in halting, broken Greek. The two women finished and stood up, nodding their heads furiously, but as neither of them spoke Mayan, Scylla started making wide, scrubbing gestures, sending Alcie into hysterics, and Charybdis began a little dance, uttering a few words.

  “Wait!” Pandy cried. “We’re Greek!”

  The conversation that followed (they decided to escort the girls to the bathing tent the following morning) took only a few seconds and left Usumacinta completely bewildered. Scylla and Charybdis left, chattering away about “such nice Greek girls.” Pandy chose a sleeping pallet and stowed her pouch and water-skin underneath. She hesitated a moment before unlacing her sandals and removing her mother’s silver girdle, pausing as she undid the clasps. How much older she felt with the girdle on! Now looking at it lying on the pallet, Pandy felt just a twinge of her own inadequate thirteen-year-old self again. All at once, her heart gave an involuntary shudder—she wanted nothing more in the world at that moment than to see her mother again. Because, she realized, taking in a sharp breath of fear, she couldn’t exactly recall her mother’s face. Then, suddenly, she felt nothing but tired.

  “Hey, guys, I’m just gonna lie down and shut my eyes for a sec . . . ,” she began, turning around to the others. Usumacinta was standing in the middle of her tent, looking back and forth between Alcie and Iole, both passed out cold on their pallets.

  Smiling, Pandy told herself she would wake them in a few moments when she roused herself, then she lay down, closing her eyes.

  The next instant, the face of Morpheus, God of Dreams, appeared before her.

  “Hello again, Pandora.”

  “Hi, Morpheus,” her mind answered.

  “Quite a day for you.”

  “Yep.”

  “You haven’t eaten much of anything, you know.”

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  “You may wake up with a stomachache,” he persisted.

  “That’s okay, I’m good. I’m just so tired.”

  “Very well then, off you go,” he said, and Pandy felt him envelop her mind.

  “Thank you,” she managed.

  “My pleasure. Dream . . . of nothing.”

  And she was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Just a Little Chat

  7:16 p.m.

  “Dear, precious child,” Hera said to herself. “Precious, darling, resourceful, intrepid, sensible, cunning, conniving, presumptuous, arrogant brat of a child!”

  She pounded her large fist into a rose-colored silk pillow, sprawling on the divan in her spacious suite of rooms. Before her stood an elaborate, many-armed candelabra, a wax taper ablaze in each sconce. When lit, each flame showed a tiny portion of whatever view or scene Hera wished to see at any given moment. Right now, her beautiful but bulging eyeballs were trained on a garlic-shaped tent in the Egyptian desert, and the three sleeping girls inside.

  “Just how clever do you really think you are, Pandora?” she mused. “Surely even you must realize that the only thing keeping me from dropping you headfirst off the slopes of Olympus or turning you into a grain of sand—or into my hairbrush, for that matter— is the fact that my husband would be slightly miffed at me.”

  Hera knew (much) better; Zeus would stick her head-down in a frozen Norse lake if he even suspected she was interfering with Pandy’s quest. All her plans were riding on her ability to be subtle (not one of Hera’s strong suits). And time.

  “Why oh why couldn’t you cooperate and simply have been skewered on a pole in that dreadful tomb? Ah, me,” she exhaled heavily. “Patience is all I need. And if I can just figure out how to cultivate that . . .”

  She poked a large forefinger into one of the small flames in the candelabra showing Pandy’s tummy. On her cot, Pandy moaned in her sleep while dreaming about her stomach being attacked by enormous rodents.

  “I have it!” came a loud whisper.

  Demeter swept in, breathless, flushed, and rather giggly; her hair changing seasons very quickly in her excitement.

  “Excellent!” said Hera, blowing out the candles. “Give it to me.”

  From her robes, Demeter withdrew a small clay jar. Hera snatched it with one hand while she cleared her admiring table (as she called it) of all its pots, brushes, and creams with the other.

  “Come,” she called, summoning two deep chairs from across the room. “This should be interesting.”

  “Oh, I’m all peppery and speckled inside!” Demeter began, giving her hands a little shake. “You have no idea . . . Just a little chat with Zeus, you said? The moment I mentioned what a shame it was that since he’d been forced to reduce Pandora’s mother to ashes and he’s had no chief personal aide in his Athens temple since, he got all pouty. And that’s when, just as you predicted, Hera, he sort of wandered over to his table and gently touched that jar. So that’s when I knew which one she was in.”

  “How did you distract him long enough to steal it?” asked Hera, regarding the jar from underneath her alternately arching brows.

  “I looked out the window and told him I thought I saw that pretty Greek maiden, Atalanta, jogging on the beach. I turned around and he was gone.”

  “Yes,” Hera sighed, “my husband likes girls who run. Of course, they’re usually running away from him.”

  “He should be gone for a while. So . . .”

  Demeter sat down and stared at Hera like she was about to see the earth created before her eyes.

  With a wave, Hera removed the wax seal and lid from the jar. Turning it over, she spilled the little heap of ashes into her hand. With a giant breath she blew them toward her mirror. In a direct line they flew, passing through the leaded glass and into the identical room on the other side. The ashes swirled in the mirror image, spinning quickly at first, then slowly condensing and compacting themselves into the form of a statuesque and beautiful woman . . . albeit missing a right arm.

  “Hera!” said Demeter.

  “Oops,” Hera said. “Hang on, for my sake.” She picked up a few unblown ashes from her palm and threw them at the mirror. After swirling furiously for a few seconds they settled into Sybilline’s lovely right arm.

  “Thank you. Hello? Excuse me,” came Sybilline’s small, tinny voice through the glass.

  “All right, Pandora’s mother,” said Hera, settling herself in a chair. “What I basically need to know is this: what is it that really matters most to your daughter?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sybilline looked around her and became a little frantic, “but I’m not quite sure where I am.”

  Hera hung her head and gave an exasperated sigh.

  “You can’t really blame her, Hera,” said Demeter softly. “She’s been ashes for over a month.”

  “Wife of Prometheus,” said Hera, “I understand your confusion and I shall put your fears to rest.”

  With another wave of Hera’s hand, Sybilline visibly relaxed. She stood placidly, gazing at the two goddesses with a small half smile on her face.

  “Answer, do not ask. Do you understand?” asked Hera.

  “Yes, great one.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” said Demeter. “You’re so good with people.”

  “Thank you, I try. Now, mother of Pandora, tell me, what is it that matters most to your daughter?”

  Sybilline stood still on the other side. Staring.

  “You didn’t by accident make her deaf, did you?” asked Demeter.

  “I don’t think so,” said Hera. “Mother of Pandora, what is it that your daughter values most highly?”

  Suddenly, Sybilline thrust one hip ever so slightly forward and crossed her arms.

  “I have no idea.”

  “What?” said Hera.

  “I’m just trying to think. She’s very curious, many things interest her. But something special? No. I don’t really know.”

  “A mother not knowing what her daughter likes and loves? Her tastes? Her preferences?” said Demeter. “That’s not right. That’s just not right!”

  “I’m stunned and, being the protectoress of mothers,” said Hera, “I should and would punish you . . . if this were anyone but Pandora we were talking about. But time is short. Come now, you can’t think of anything that she wants, needs, dotes upon, and so on?”

  “She has two friends she’s always talking about,” replied Sybilline.

  “Alcie and Iole, yes, we know,” said Hera.

  “And there was a boy she was interested in,” Sybilline continued.

  “Tiresias the Younger was turned into a girl when the box was opened, so he’s out of the picture,” said Hera.

  “There is only one other thing I can think of. Actually, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The one thing Pandora truly loves is Dido,” said Sybilline.

  “Dido?”

  “Her dog,” said Sybilline.

  Hera had a short, sharp intake of breath. Then, after a long pause, she exhaled very, very slowly, never for a moment taking her eyes off Sybilline.

  She waved her hand one final time and a very surprised Sybilline watched as fragments of her body began whirling in the space around her, until she was nothing but a swirling circle of ashes. Hera sucked a large breath of air inward and the ashes flew out of the mirror image and back into the clay jar. Hera placed the lid on the jar herself and gazed at Demeter’s reflection in her looking glass.

  Turning to her friend, Hera’s lips began spreading over her teeth at hideous, malevolent angles.

  “Of course. It was there all the time. The girl loves her dog!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sentry

  7:00 p.m. (exactly . . . the next day)

  “Humpf . . . Dido, stop!” In her sleep, Pandy swatted at something close to her ear. “Stop . . . um . . . big . . . thing . . . you’re tickling me!” Still foggy, Pandy opened her eyes and saw Dido sitting on his haunches a meter away, just staring at her.

  “Stop it, ghost dog, stop kissing me. Uh . . . huh?” Pandy reached toward her ear and felt a tiny tongue, a small warm snout, and a big hunk of fur.

  “Ahh!” she screamed, grabbing whatever it was and sending it hurtling across the tent. Dido watched the little missile arc overhead and padded off to the spot where it had landed with a thud.

  Pandy bolted up too quickly, saw a zillion stars swirling before her eyes, and promptly fell back on the pallet.

  “Great Artemis!” she moaned.

  “How interesting you should mention her,” came a small, raspy voice close by. “I mean, of all the goddesses, I just find it fascinating that you would choose her . . . seeing as how she gave me to you, seeing as how the Huntress and I are so close. She and I.”

  Dido stood directly in front of her, her wolfskin diary held loosely in his mouth. The diary gave a few low grunts and growls and Dido very gently shook the skin back and forth, causing much dust to fly into the air. Then he carefully placed it on the pallet next to Pandora.

  The diary gave a small yelp. Dido yelped in response then settled himself back on the floor.

  “Oh, forgive me, Pandora. I was just thanking your dog for dusting me off . . . after retrieving me from the dirt floor . . . in that filthy corner . . . where you threw me!”

  “I’m sorry, Diary,” Pandy said, sincerely. “I didn’t know that was you.”

  “Yes, well, someone or something had to wake you,” said the diary. “Your friends decided to let you sleep, but that strange girl who lives in this place poked you a few times when meals were being served. A lot of good that did. I have been listening to your stomach growl for many hours, so finally I had Dido place me on top of your head. Thanks be to Artemis that I am only slightly bruised for my trouble.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pandy said again in earnest. Then, without warning, she found herself in a panic. She dropped to the floor and began pulling out her bags and pouches. “How long have I been asleep? What am I doing? What day is it? We can’t stay here! I have to get to Alexandria!”

  “Pandora, cease!” said the diary. “You have been keeping company with Morpheus a single day. That is all.”

  “But one day might make all the difference! Vanity is out there somewhere and—”

  “And what can be done now? It is done. It is past,” said the diary.

  “I know, but—”

  “Would you cross the great desert tonight, on foot, risking, perhaps, everything by being rash and unthinking?” the diary continued. “Or would you look upon and listen to what is about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Artemis, the Huntress, tells you that there are interesting forces at work in this place. You must be keen and receptive. Use that curiosity of yours. Hunt, Pandora. Perhaps you will discover a way to expedite your journey.”

  “Expedite?”

  “Speed up!”

  “Oh!” said Pandy. “I will. I promise. Please tell Artemis.”

  “She heard you.”

  “Okay,” said Pandy. Looking about, she half expected to see Artemis floating in the air above her. Her gaze landed on her dog. “Has Dido been fed?”

  “He’s fine. That incredibly large boy has taken good care of him.”

  “Gods!” Pandy said, hearing her stomach growl. “I’m starving.”

  The wolfskin’s large ears twitched toward the opening of the tent.

  “Judging from the sound coming from thirty-seven and six-tenths paces due northeast, tonight’s feast is just now under way. I’d try to dress appropriately if I were you. And fix your hair.”

  “Thanks for waking me,” Pandy said, donning her spare toga and repinning her hair combs.

  “Fine . . . have fun. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it—and the temple, and the dolphins, whatever you’ve been doing to keep yourself busy, et cetera—later. If you can spare the time to talk to me.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell you everything,” Pandy said, kissing the little snout and carefully placing the skin back into her pouch.

  “I think it would be quite nice if I could eat something,” came the diary’s muffled voice from under the pallet. “I never get to go anywhere!”

  Smiling as she clasped her silver girdle around her waist, she left the tent.

  She didn’t have to get her bearings by the fading sunset to know which way was due northeast. There was only one tent aglow with light, sound, and scent: the giant tangerine.

  Making her way, all her senses were on alert to discover these “interesting forces” the diary had mentioned. She looked at everything, the tents, the animals, the crumbling temple, and the unending desert. She inhaled the twilight air, taking in deep breaths. She tried to listen more intently to every sound; to feel anything different in the air on her skin.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Except she was miles from home and walking toward a big tangerine.

  A large shadow suddenly obscured the little remaining sun and she heard a soft dragging noise directly behind her. Turning around, she saw a wall of sweating gray matter about ten meters long and almost four meters high moving slowly in a circle from the left. At the front, she saw two small protrusions, bulbous and twisting gently, like soft feelers sticking up, ready to sense any danger. It was the slug tent. Standing transfixed at the wide slime trail it was leaving behind, a sudden movement caught her eye. Cries and shouts erupted from within, and the wet slug “skin” seemed as if it was being poked with something sharp within its belly. Suddenly, it was as if a lamp had been lit inside, and the “skin” became translucent. Pandy saw several people silhouetted inside, jumping over tables, pallets, and chairs and grabbing curved items hanging on the inner walls, all headed toward the back end. Pandy could see a rickety spiral staircase loaded with everyone trying to get up and out. A small flap opened on top of the slug and five older youths, their heads wrapped in large cloth turbans and wearing flowing robes, leaped out into the darkening night air. Each of them had a bluish glow, as if they were covered head to toe in a glittery blue powder.

  “Shahriyar, front! You’re the main lookout tonight,” shouted one man in Arabic, waving an enormous curved sword.

  “Sir!”

  The man called Shahriyar, brandishing his own curved weapon, ran toward the head of the slug, settling himself between the two soft horns.

  “Haifz, left. Wakim, right,” said the first man, obviously in charge. “Musa and I are rear.”

  “Wise is Abdul-Rashid al Ahmed!” shouted the men as they took their places.

  “Praise be, there will be no disturbances this night,” Musa said to Abdul-Rashid, seating themselves on the back end of the slug tent. “The performers are still a little . . . disturbed . . . by yesterday’s arrival of our ‘guests.’”