Prologue
EVERYBODY HAS A SECRET.
For some of us, that secret is about something we did a long time ago that we don’t want to get in trouble for.
For others of us, it’s a promise made to a family member or a friend to holdtheirsecret close to our hearts.
And for still others of us, it’s a dream, a wish, for a future much brighter—much better—than our own.
But for a few of us—a very, very few—that secret is something bigger, something scarier, something locked deep inside us, just waiting for a chance to grow, to flourish, tobecome.
For a few of us, that secret—that story—is us.
But secrets are only hidden until they’re spoken.
And promises are only kept until they’re broken.
Stories, though…Stories can last forever. They can be told over and over again. They can grow, they can shrink, they can take up all the space in a room, and sometimes they can even slink away and disappear.
Every once in a while, though, a story can do so much more. Every once in a while, if the person telling the story is very, very brave, it can do the most magical, most miraculous thing of all.
It can changeeverything.
So grab your popcorn and hold on to your hats and socks and anything else that might fly off. Because this is one of those stories, and Penelope Weaver is one of those storytellers. But it’s only fair to warn you, once you turn this page, nothing will ever be the same again.
Welcome to the Aftermyth.
1.Sparkles Speak Louder than Words
I FEEL LIKE I’M ABOUTto jump right out of my skin.
It’s a silly metaphor, I know, but it’s one my grandmother uses all the time—usually in reference to how the nymphs who live in the forest behind her house are acting. I can’t see the nymphs the way she can—it’s not my gift—so I’ve always wondered what exactly she means by the expression. Not to mention what it would look like if a person, or a nymph, actuallyjumpedout of their skin. But right now, I totally get it. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep still as we wind our way along this narrow mountain road in my father’s trusty silver Subaru.
My leg is shaking up and down, my eyes keep scanning the tall, dark woods around us for I don’t evenknowwhat, and I feel like I’ve suddenly forgotten what to do with myhands. One minute I’m rubbing them up and down my thighs like I’m trying to keep warm and the next I’m twining and twisting my fingers together into a series of complicated knots.
If we don’t get there soon, I swear I’m going to explode…or, at the very least, end up with my fingers tied together. Not exactly the first impression I’m hoping to make when I get to Athena Hall and am finally—finally—assigned my twelve labors.
On a day like today, it’s hard to believe my twin brother, Paris, is the calm one between the two of us—he’s normally the one who gets all wild and worked up about things—but it’s true. Right now, he’s acting like it’s any other day. Face buried in his PlayStation Portal, brown eyes focused on whatever game he’s currently obsessed with, auburn hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. It’s like he doesn’t evencarethat this is the most important day of our lives.
Then again, he always makes a good first impression. I’m the one whose delivery usually needs work, the one who sneezes too loud and walks too fast, whose curly red hair is too wild. Not this time, though. This time, I’m going to do everything right. I’ve been practicing formonths. As for my hair, I’ve got that locked down in the tightest braid known to humankind.
“Aren’t you even the smallest bit excited?” The words burst out of me like air from a leaky balloon—strange sounding, unexpected, and, if I’m being honest, more than a little bit on the shrill side.
What can I say? I may be the planner, but when I freak out, Ireallyfreak out.
“I’ll get excited when we’re actually there,” Paris shoots back without so much as glancing up from his game. “Besides, you’re wound up tight enough for the both of us.”
I want to argue, but he’s not wrong. So instead, I ignore him and lean forward, doing my best to peer through the windshield. I don’t know what I’m expecting—what I’m hoping—to see, but it’s not what’s actually there. The same old road we’ve driven on a million times before.
Winding curves.
Narrow lanes.
Not a lot of traffic.
And tons and tons of giant trees in whatever direction you happen to glance.
Basically, it looks like every other road out here in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts. It’s pretty—really pretty—but not exactly what I’d call extraordinary. And definitely not where I’d expect a school like Anaximander’s to be located.
