A 1

“Mom,” Piper said, with no enthusiasm.
“Girls!” The goddess spread her arms like she wanted a group hug.
The three demigods did not oblige. Hazel backed into a palmetto tree.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Aphrodite said. “War is coming. Bloodshed is inevitable. So there’s
really only one thing to do.”
“Uh…and that is?” Annabeth ventured.
“Why, have tea and chat, obviously. Come with me!”
Aphrodite knew how to do tea.
She led them to the central pavilion in the gardens—a white-pillared gazebo, where a table was set
with silverware, china cups, and of course a steaming pot of tea, the fragrance shifting as easily as
Aphrodite’s appearance—sometimes cinnamon, or jasmine, or mint. There were plates of scones,
cookies, and muffins, fresh butter and jam—all of which, Annabeth figured, were incredibly fattening;
unless, of course, you were the immortal goddess of love.
Aphrodite sat—or held court, rather—in a wicker peacock chair. She poured tea and served cakes
without getting a speck on her clothes, her posture always perfect, her smile dazzling.
Annabeth hated her more and more the longer they sat.
“Oh, my sweet girls,” the goddess said. “I do love Charleston! The weddings I’ve attended in this
gazebo—they bring tears to my eyes. And the elegant balls in the days of the Old South. Ah, they
were lovely. Many of these mansions still have statues of me in their gardens, though they called me
Venus.”
“Which are you?” Annabeth asked. “Venus or Aphrodite?”