He looked up, at the second story, where baby me was sleeping. “I suppose that’s why I’m not supposed to ask the obvious. Why you’re here. Why you couldn’t just ask us whatever you wanted in your own time.”
I swallowed. Because yeah. It was kind of obvious, wasn’t it?
“It’s all right,” he said softly, his hand tightening on mine. “Considering what we’re up against . . . well. We knew how things might have to go.”
“But it doesn’t have to,” I said tentatively. “I could help. . . .”
A blond eyebrow went north. “And did you ask her about that?”
“No.”
He smirked. “What would this be, then? Mother is sure to refuse, so you ask Dad?”
“This isn’t funny. You don’t know what’s coming—”
“And I don’t want to.”
“Why?” I demanded. “You were involved in a group whose whole purpose was to change time!”
“Yes. And I’ve learned a few things since then.”
“Such as?”
He leaned back against the desk, the wavering light sending ripples over the surface of his glasses. He must have seen that it was bothering me, because he took them off and wearily rubbed his eyes. They were the same color as mine, I realized. Mother had blue, too, but hers were a rich almost-violet. But his were the same plain shade as mine.
Human blue.
“It seems like it should be the answer to all our dreams, doesn’t it?” he asked, smiling. “If you control time, you control everything. When I was your age, I believed that with absolute certainty. I could do it; I could change the world.” He looked heavenward, or maybe just upstairs. “But I think it ended up more the other way around.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I was struggling with whether or not to tell him what was coming. It was the last thing I was supposed to do, but how else could I make him understand? And we needed their help.
“Roger—”
“No.”
“You won’t even listen to what I have to say?” I demanded, confusion, fear, and anger mixing into a familiar acid burn in my stomach. “I could help—”
“Cassie—”
“I could!
“No. Not even the Pythia has pow
er over death.”
It was quiet, but it stopped me cold. “What?”
“Your mother is dying,” he told me gently. “Whether by the Spartoi’s hand or not, nothing can stop that now.”
“But . . . she’s immortal—”
“Which does not guard against illness or injury.”
“She’s been hurt?”
“She’s been starved. For more than three thousand years. And as with humans who go without sustenance long enough, it takes a toll.”
“But . . . I have the Pythian power. If it’s energy she needs—”