The griffin sat.

Then it lowered its body between its paws and waited.

“Well, Diana, you wanted proof the griffin belonged to Philip,” Sarah said. “I think you have it.”

Philip extended the Cheerio to the griffin. All the adults in the room held their breath as the griffin studied the piece of cereal.

“Treat,” Philip said.

The griffin leaped up to a sitting position and took the small oat hoop. As he swallowed the cereal down, I counted to be sure that all of Philip’s fingers were still attached to his hand. Mercifully, they were.

“Yay!” Philip hugged the griffin with great enthusiasm and pride. Its beak was perilously close to my child’s delicate ear. I moved to separate them.

“I wouldn’t interfere, Diana,” Sarah said mildly. “Those two have something special going on.”

“What will you call it, Pip?” Agatha asked our son. “Big Bird?”

“I think that name is taken,” Marcus said with a laugh. “What about George, for George Washington? It is part eagle.”

“Name not George.” Philip was patting the griffin’s head.

“What then?” Agatha wondered aloud. “Goldy?”

Philip shook his head.

“Tweety?” Sarah asked. “That’s a good name for a bird.”

“Not bird.” Philip scowled at Sarah.

“Why don’t you tell us, Philip?” I didn’t like the idea that my son and a creature straight from the pages of a fairy tale were on a first-name basis.

“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.”

Matthew didn’t approve of the deal I’d made with the goddess to save his life in exchange for giving her the use of mine.

“Maybe we’re overreacting,” I said. “Maybe the griffin is just a harmless gift.”

“Nothing she does is harmless. What might the goddess give Rebecca when the time comes for her to make magic? A golden hind? A bear?” Matthew’s eyes were darkening with emotion. He shook his head. “No, Diana. I’m not having it.”

“You said yourself we can’t just pretend the twins don’t have magic in their blood,” I said, trying to be reasonable.

“Magic is one thing. Griffins and goddesses and hell and destruction—that’s something else entirely.” Matthew’s anger was rising. “Is that what you want for your son?

And the father of freedom on earth. Philippe’s voice was nothing but a whisper, his expression sad. Why is it always the dark with Matthew? Never the light.

It was a question Philippe had asked me before. There was no easy answer to it. Matthew’s faith, his blood rage, and his overactive conscience colored everything. It made his joy, his unexpected smiles, and his forgiveness all the more precious when he was able to rise above his darker feelings.

“Are you asking me to spellbind him?” I demanded.

Matthew looked shocked.

“Because that’s what it might take to raise Philip safely if he is a weaver and he doesn’t have Apollo to rely on,” I said. “Apollo can be with Philip even when we can’t. They’ll be a team.”

“Philip cannot take a griffin to school,” Matthew retorted. “New Haven is progressive, but there are limits.”

“Maybe not, but he can take a Labrador retriever. Provided it goes through the proper training program, of course, and gets certified,” I said, thinking aloud. “Apollo should make quite a convincing assistance dog, with the right disguising spell.”

“Not doggy, Mama,” Philip said, rocking his horse around the sheepskin in something vaguely like a gallop. “Griff’n.”