“The creator’s daughter has spoken!” cried a Melia.

“Daughter of two creators!” said another.

“Twice blessed!”

“Wise solver of puzzles!”

“The Meg!”

This left the last two with little to add, so they muttered, “Yep. The Meg. Yep.”

The other dryads murmured and nodded. Despite the fact that the ash trees would be taking over their enchilada-eating hangout, no one complained.

“A sacred grove of ashes,” I said. “I used to have one like that in ancient times. Meg, it’s perfect.”

I faced the Sibyl, who had been standing silently in back, no doubt stunned to be around so many people after her long captivity.

“Herophile,” I said, “this grove will be well protected. No one, not even Caligula, could ever threaten you here. I won’t tell you what to do. The choice is yours. But would you consider making this your new home?”

Herophile wrapped her arms around herself. Her auburn hair was the same color as the desert hills in the afternoon light. I wondered if she was thinking about how different this hillside was from the one where she was born, where she’d had her cave in Erythraea.

“I could be happy here,” she decided. “My initial thought—and this was just an idea—is that I heard they produce many game shows in Pasadena. I have several ideas for new ones.”

Prickly Pear quivered. “How about you put a pin in that, darling? Join us!”

Putting a pin in something was good advice coming from a cactus.

Aloe Vera nodded. “We would be honored to have an Oracle! You could warn me whenever anyone is about to get a cold!”

“We would welcome you with open arms,” Joshua agreed. “Except for those of us with prickly arms. They would probably just wave at you.”

Herophile smiled. “Very well. I would be…” Her voice seized up, as if she were about to start a new prophecy and send us all scrambling.

“Okay!” I said. “No need to thank us! It’s decided!”

And so, Palm Springs gained an Oracle, while the rest of the world was saved from several new daytime TV game shows like Sibyl of Fortune or The Oracle Is Right! It was a win-win.

The rest of the evening was spent making a new camp down the hillside, eating take-out dinner (I chose the enchiladas verdes, thanks for asking), and assuring Aloe Vera that our layers of medicinal goop were thick enough. The Meliai dug up their own saplings and replanted them in the Cistern, which I guessed was the dryad version of pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps.

At sunset, their leader came to Meg and bowed low. “We will slumber now. But whenever you call, if we are within range, we shall answer! We shall protect this land in the name of the Meg!”

“Thanks,” said the Meg, poetic as always.

The Meliai faded into their seven ash trees, which now made a beautiful ring around the pond. Their branches glowed with a soft, buttery light. The other dryads moved across the hillside, enjoying the cool air and the stars in the smoke-free night sky as they gave the Sibyl a tour of her new home.

“And here are some rocks,” they told her. “And over here, these are more rocks.”

Grover sat down next to Meg and me with a contented sigh.

The satyr had changed his clothes: a green cap, a fresh tie-dyed shirt, clean jeans, and a new pair of hoof-appropriate New Balance shoes. A backpack was slung on his shoulder. My heart sank to see him dressed for travel, though I was not surprised.

“Going somewhere?” I asked.

He grinned. “Back to Camp Half-Blood.”

“Now?” Meg demanded.

He spread his hands. “I’ve been here for years. Thanks to you guys, my work is finally actually done! I mean, I know you still have a long way to go, freeing the Oracles and all, but…”

He was too polite to finish the thought: but please do not ask me to go any farther with you.

“You deserve to go home,” I said wistfully, wishing I could do the same. “But you won’t even rest the night?”

Grover got a faraway look in his eyes. “I need to get back. Satyrs aren’t dryads, but we have roots, too. Camp Half-Blood is mine. I’ve been gone too long. I hope Juniper hasn’t gotten herself a new goat….”

I recalled the way the dryad Juniper had fretted and worried about her absent boyfriend when I was at camp.

“I doubt she could ever replace such an excellent satyr,” I said. “Thank you, Grover Underwood. We couldn’t have succeeded without you and Walt Whitman.”

He laughed, but his expression immediately darkened. “I’m just sorry about Jason and…” His gaze fell on the ukulele in my lap. I hadn’t let it out of my sight since we returned, though I hadn’t had the heart to tune the strings, much less play it.

“Yes,” I agreed. “And Money Maker. And all the others who perished trying to find the Burning Maze. Or in the fires, the drought…”

Wow. For a second there, I’d been feeling okay. Grover really knew how to kill a vibe.

His goatee quivered. “I’m sure you guys will make it to Camp Jupiter,” he said. “I’ve never been there, or met Reyna, but I hear she’s good people. My buddy Tyson the Cyclops is there too. Tell him I said hi.”

I thought about what awaited us in the north. Aside from what we’d gleaned aboard Caligula’s yacht—that his attack during the new moon had not gone well—we didn’t know what was going on at Camp Jupiter, or whether Leo Valdez was still there or flying back to Indianapolis. All we knew was that Caligula, now without his stallion and his sorceress, was sailing to the Bay Area to deal with Camp Jupiter personally. We had to get there first.

“We will be fine,” I said, trying to convince myself. “We’ve wrested three Oracles from the Triumvirate. Now, aside from Delphi itself, only one source of prophecy remains: the Sibylline Books…or rather, what Ella the harpy is trying to reconstruct of them from memory.”

Grover frowned. “Yeah. Ella. Tyson’s girlfriend.”

He sounded confused, as if it made no sense that a Cyclops would have a harpy girlfriend, much less one with a photographic memory who had somehow become our only link to books of prophecy that had burned up centuries before.

Very little of our situation made sense, but I was a former Olympian. I was used to incoherency.

“Thanks, Grover.” Meg gave the satyr a hug and kissed him on the cheek, which was certainly more gratitude than she’d ever shown me.

“You bet,” Grover said. “Thank you, Meg. You…” He gulped. “You’ve been a great friend. I liked talking plants with you.”

“I was also there,” I said.

Grover smiled sheepishly. He got to his feet and clicked together the chest straps of his backpack. “Sleep well, you guys. And good luck. I have a feeling I’ll see you again before…Yeah.”

Before I ascend into the heavens and regain my immortal throne?

Before we all die in some miserable fashion at the hands of the Triumvirate?

I wasn’t sure. But after Grover left, I felt an empty place in my chest, as if the hole I’d poked with the Arrow of Dodona were growing deeper and wider. I unlaced the sandals of Caligula and tossed them away.