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Rating: T

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*Important note about the chapter: This is an interlude. It is similar to a prologue or epilogue; just interwoven throughout the book. Because of this, it is in 3rd person. This interlude may be confusing if one doesn't know the basic structure to the Trojan War. If anyone has any concerns, please review or PM me with what you're confused about. Thank you.

Interlude

Sister is probably the most competitive relationship within the family, but once the sisters are grown, it becomes the strongest relationship.

-Margaret Mead

Sussex, England

Every year.

Dahlia Alderman hung her head, trudging along dejectedly. Her auburn hair hung in matted tangles around the planes of her fair face, nearly obscuring her dark eyes from view. Thoughts ran through her mind like a whirlwind; a miniature tornado of doubts and hopes. Her trainers dug into the soft, mushy earth with each step, splattering mud all up and down her jeans. She paid no attention to the ruin of the denim. At present, it was the very least of her problems, unfortunate as it might be.

Around her, the sound of lyres and mandolins- instruments of an era long past- ranged, filling her ears with a cacophony of medieval music. A fake-drunken voice shouted out the lyrics to a sea shanty. In nearly any other settings, the noises would have been odd; foreign- to this century, at least. Yet, in the midst of the Renaissance Fair, Dahlia wouldn't have expected anything else. She had grown to embrace it, just like she did every year when she watched her sister perform.

A bitter grimace edged its way onto her thin lips. Dahlia Alderman, sister of Jeanette Alderman, famous performer. That was how she had been associated since Dahlia was ten years old, when Jeanette landed her first performance on Broadway, an American musical theatre in New York City. Dahlia had gone to the show, and, reluctant as she was to admit it, she was struck by her older sister's talent. Jeannette was a dancer- in what kind of genre, it didn't matter; she was amazing in every type- and had landed a surprisingly large role for her rookie performance. Dahlia remembered reading the reviews for Jeannette's performance: a stunning performer, full of grace and elegance. A beautiful dance, full of inspiration. They seemed to go on and on, making a long list of reviews that Jeannette had pinned up on her wall.

Dahlia sighed. After that one performance, things had just gotten worse. Jeannette had become more and more talented, and more and more in-demand. When she landed her first role in a movie, Dahlia shouldn't have been surprised- but she was. The news hit her like a kick to the gut, a final proclamation that no matter how hard Dahlia worked at everything: dance, school, theatre, her messy hair, it would never matter. She would never be as good as her sister.

Dahlia looked up, startled from her thoughts by a vendor's shout. "Pretzels!" The vendor's voice pierced through the air, exaggeratedly old-English. "Thy pretzels for thine pleasure!" She snickered into her palm. Though Dahlia was no scholar, she was fairly certain that Shakespeare was rolling over in his grave.

Dahlia had been going to Renaissance festivals since she was six years old, when Jeannette started college. Her sister had started performing to earn a few extra dollars to help with household upkeep, and, though she gradually got more popular, she never stopped performing. Now, the festival was shockingly crowded, a surplus of women with skanky, low-cut dresses and bodices advertising their numerous tattoos. Dahlia had no delusions: the extra guests were for her sister. They always were.

"Dahlia!" She turned, seeing her no-nonsense mother wave her over. "The show's about to start. Don't be late!" Dahlia almost laughed. For the past hour, she had been stalling, ducking into every single store, buying nothing, looking at everything, and taking as much time as possible. As it turned out, it was all for naught. She had been busted by her mother anyway.

"Coming!" Dahlia called back weakly. She shot one more glance at a shop to her right: Potions and Poultices, get your everyday aromatic concoctions here! Snorting under her breath, she hurried along after her mother. Even if it weren't for Jeannette, Dahlia would still hate the Renaissance festival. She found the whole ordeal ridiculous: the expensive broadswords (yes, because you would use that in everyday encounters), the pricey outfits (which were worth it because why, exactly? Dahlia didn't see the point in buying a hoopskirt that you would wear once a year, maybe twice, if you counted All Hallow's Eve), and the ridiculous lotions and potions (ooh, look at this nice, scary-looking hodge-podge of stuff that I made!). Yet, Dahlia and her family went every year. Every bloody year.

She sniffed, trying to look as dignified as possible while traipsing through the mud puddles that lined 'Ye Olde Road'. The mud splashed up and down her calves, and, not for the first time, Dahlia was glad that she had worn jeans. The mud on her bare calves would be like a bug magnet, advertising a free feeding ground for mosquitoes. She wrinkled her nose. Even for England, there had been a rainy spring, with hardly a day of sun. Come to think of it, Dahlia couldn't even bring one instance to mind.

Dahlia finally reached her mother, huffing and puffing a bit. Her mother sent a disdainful glance down to her. "Took you long enough," she said in her clipped, sophisticated British accent. "Do you want to be late for Jeanie's performance? I know that they've never been your favourites, but honestly, Dahlia. It would mean the world to her if you smiled just a little bit." Her mother leaned in, pinching Dahlia's cheeks and holding them up. Dahlia scowled.

"I do come," she said. "All the time." She crossed her arms, looking down at the ground. Even at seventeen, her mother never quite grasped the concept that Dahlia wasn't a little kid anymore. Dahlia was the youngest of seven children, and though her mother had tried to hide it, she knew that she wasn't planned. She was a mistake. It wasn't hard to see; not really, with her closest sibling in age- Georgie, her older brother- six years ahead of her.

She closed her eyes, thinking about the success that her siblings had experienced. The oldest, Ralf, had opened up a four-star restaurant in London. Nikki had become a high-paid zoologist at the London zoo. Sam opened up a classy, well-endowed boutique in Manchester. Liliana went to Seattle, a city in America, to become a marine biologist and study orca whales. Jeannette, of course, became a world-famous dancer. Georgie went on to become a jockey.

It seemed as if all of her other siblings had achieved success where Dahlia had failed. She burnt microwaved lasagna. Even the nicest cats hissed at her, while dogs growled. Her fashion sense was so low that Dahlia wasn't trusted to pick out her own clothes until the age of eight and a half. Even then, she went to a private school with uniforms, and it hardly mattered. She was terrified of the water. Horses tried to buck her off.

The only thing that had really fit with Dahlia was dancing. She wasn't particularly good at it, or anything like that; dancing and she just seemed to click. When Dahlia went on stage, her fear of crowds disappeared. It was just her and the dance floor, the floorboards underneath her slippers, the bright lights shining down on her. Dahlia closed her eyes. For the first ten years of her life, it had been perfect. Jeannette was better than Dahlia at it, of course, but Jeannette was better than everybody at everything.

A month after Jeannette earned her first Broadway role, Dahlia quit.

Dahlia still remembered the day that she told her parents she wanted to quit. It had been a stormy spring day, with rain pattering on the windows of their small country cottage in the sprawling hills of Sussex. She had come home after a particularly grueling dance practice. It wasn't grueling for the reasons that one might think, either: the dance routines weren't hard, the work wasn't physically exhausting, as one might think.

Ms. Gregory, the dance instructor, had come up to Dahlia before class. "I hear that your sister is having some success in the world of dance," she had said conversationally. A sinking pit had formed into Dahlia's stomach.

She had forced a smile. "Yes. My family's really hoping that this is her big break. She's always worked so hard, you know. Not that she's ever really needed to." Dahlia had been babbling, but unable to quit. "Jeannette's always had a certain level of natural talent." Dahlia thought back to the days that Jeannette performed on stage on their small-town recitals. She remembered the thunderous applause that greeted her performance, and the meager one that greeted Dahlia's.

Ms. Gregory had nodded. "Oh, I remember teaching her. Never needed to help that girl at all. Graceful as a butterfly, that one, always sixteen steps ahead of the rest of the class. I told your parents again and again that she needed a private tutor." She clucked her tongue. "I was almost sad to see her go when she finally did. Such a good student."

A cold fist twisted in her stomach. Dahlia remembered that day, too. Their parents had announced the change of tutors to Jeannette at dinner, and Dahlia kept on waiting for them to tell her that she was switched, too. They never did tell her that. Dahlia kept with Ms. Gregory up until the day that she left.

At that point, the jealousy that Dahlia had been feeling for Jeannette since the day that she was born burst. Instead of the furious Dahlia, the one that was angry at Jeannette for having so much success, there was simply a sad, defeated Dahlia. She was sick and tired of having to compete with Jeannette for everything.

That night, she marched home, telling her parents that she wanted to quit. That was seven years ago, now, and Dahlia had never regretted her choice. She missed it sometimes, for a brief blink- a small pang in the chest, perhaps- but never for a small moment. Just one look at Jeannette changed all that.

By now, Dahlia and her mother had reached the stage that Jeannette would be dancing on. The festival had put in some extra funds, and the stage was now bigger, more exquisite, just for Jeanette. The first year that Dahlia's sister had danced here, Jeannette had a supporting role. There was thunderous applause for her graceful performance, of course, but back then, Dahlia had still been hoping to be in Jeannette's position one day.

Now, the stage was monstrous. It was a large thing, looking down on the ground with an air of self-importance. Massive spotlights were all fixated on the stage. A large thump came from the orchestra pit- the beginning of drums- and Dahlia knew that her mother was right. They had arrived just in time for the performance.

"Damn," Dahlia muttered under her breath.

Her mother sent her a sidelong glance. "What was that, young lady?" Her voice was cool, and nonchalant, but Dahlia knew better. Grace Alderman could be vicious with punishments when she truly put her mind to it, and as the baby, even at seventeen, Dahlia had no business swearing under her breath.

Fortunately, Dahlia didn't need to explain. There was a large cheer, and a graceful, long-legged dancer loped onto the stage. The crowd was suddenly run-through with a huge, earsplitting whoop for the dancer, who remained as impassive as ever, elegant and refined on the stage built just for her.

Dahlia knew that her sister was beautiful. On some instinctive level, she had always known that, from the very moment that she had laid eyes on her. Even if it weren't for the boys who came over to the house, ringing the doorbell, and asking her if Dahlia's sister was home with a nervous look in their eyes, or for the kids on the bus, shouting about my sister's finely-shaped dancer's legs, she would have still known that. If Jeannette hadn't gone into dance, she could have been a supermodel.

Her sister had blonde hair, just like their mother. She had ice-blue eyes, pale and striking against her milky, perfect skin. She had full, pale pink lips, a tiny nose, a small chin, and cheekbones that could cut ice. She was thin and tiny, just like a doll. If one didn't look closely for the sinewy dancer's muscles in her arms, one would have thought that you could snap her in half.

After the applause finally died down, the orchestra began its first few notes. The first dance that Dahlia's sister was performing was clearly solo- she was the only person on the massive stage, though her mere presence seemed to command all attention. Dahlia's sister began the first few steps, looking like a fairy princess, her dress flashing with each way she deftly turned.

Dahlia's heart sank. She sent a glance over to her mother, but Grace Alderman was completely encompassed in Jeannette's performance. Quietly, Dahlia slipped away from the clamoring crowd, climbing up 'Ye Olde Road'. Mud splattered everywhere, and Dahlia cursed at it, but it hardly seemed to matter. The roads were deserted, everyone down to watch Jeannette.

She wiped at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "Every single year," she said aloud venomously. "Every single bloody year." Dahlia kicked the mud, sending a wave of brown spraying up in front of her.

"Well. That was certainly very vehement."

Dahlia whipped around, her auburn hair flying into her mouth. "Who said that?" she shouted, her voice echoing throughout the closed-up town. Her eyes searched, until she found a boy, sitting on an old wooden bench.

The boy lifted his hand in a half-wave. "Just plain old me," he said loftily. He stood up, lighting a cigarette behind his hand. He let it dangle, and for a moment, Dahlia focused on that, a small stream of pale grey smoke drifting up from the cig. Then she let my eyes travel up to his face, and sucked in a sharp breath.

Godly was the only word that came to mind. And, really, it was the only one to describe him. The boy was almost unnaturally beautiful. He was tall, and lean, with a black leather jacket and studded spikes. A thick mass of black hair was on his head, accentuating his tanned skin. A pair of black jeans, spiked leather cuffs, and motorcycle boots completed the effect. He wore a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, and though it might have just been the sun, she thought that she almost saw something flicker behind his glasses.

All of the wind knocked out of her. The boy grinned, as if he knew the effect that he was having on Dahlia. "Ah, mortals," he said easily, his white teeth pearly behind his grin. Despite his youth- he couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty- he had a sort of old soul to him. It was as if he had lived for a long time. "So easy to trick. And to confuse. It never ceases to give me joy." He took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing it out in a stream of gray smoke.

Mortals? Dahlia thought briefly. Christ. Who does this guy think that he is? She sent him a reproving glance, crossing her arms. "What do you want?" she said, albeit a bit rudely. Though, to be fair, he started it first, with the calling her a mortal business.

"It never ceases to amaze me how impertinent you mortals are, as well," the boy said, flicking a bit of cigarette ashes onto the ground. They sizzled out in the wet, damp grass.

"Oh, I'm the one that's being impertinent?" Dahlia took a step forward, her temper flaring up. "Says the creepy biker guy who's loitering around a park bench, smoking a cigarette and calling me a 'mortal'. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Queen Elizabeth II? The Prime Minister?" She glared at him. "Well? Do you fancy standing there, looking like an idiot with your ridiculous glasses and half-smirk and cigarette?" On impulse, she leaned over, snatching the cigarette out of his hand and grounding it underneath her trainer. "Smoking kills, you know."

The boy looked at her in surprise. For a moment, a dangerous expression crossed over his face, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Then he laughed, the sound high and pure. "Oh, Eris chose well," he murmured, stroking his stubble chin. "You'll fit in right with her plan. It's a shame that I don't agree with her cause, because I'm almost ninety-percent certain that she'll win." He shook his head.

"Eris?" Dahlia said. The name struck a chord with her, sounding vaguely familiar, and she tried to remember what it was that struck her as odd. "What is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

The boy studied her closely. Then he let out a long, drafty sigh. "I don't know why I do this. I really don't." He looked up at the sky, glaring at it, as if he had a deal with the clouds and lightening. "Look. Dahlia."

"How do you know my name?"

"I just do, alright?" The boy waved his hand dismissively. "If you're smart, you'll shut up and listen to me. I haven't got a whole lot of time, and I came here all the way from New York City. Do you know how uncomfortable airplanes are? Very." He frowned. "Anyhow, getting to the point." He stroked his chin.

"The only reason why I'm doing this is because I don't always agree with my sister. I mean, I love her, but she acts too much like a thickheaded lump of cheese half of the time to take her seriously." The boy shook his head. "Anyway. I'm only going to do half of the job that I said that I would do, and that's because I think that maybe, just maybe, you need to choose for yourself."

"What do you mean?" Dahlia said, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

The boy sighed, muttering something under his breath about 'stupid mortals'. Then he pointed across the way. "Look," he said. "Do you see the shop over there? 'Dragon's Breath'?" He pointed to a nice shop, with a gleaming broadsword in the window.

"Yes," Dahlia said. "So? What's this supposed to do with anything? Why on earth should I care if you don't always agree with your sister? And how on earth do you know my name?" The entire encounter was starting to frighten her. Dahlia cut her fingernails into her palm to keep her hands from shaking.

The boy grinned. "Questions, questions," he said. "I can see why Eris chose you. But, anyway. Back to the point. You need to go into that shop. Then," he said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, "you need to make your own decisions. Just know this: there's a whole lotta people depending on you, kid. Percy Jackson-" he wrinkled his nose, as if he had just smelled a bad fish, "-William and Caroline Grace, Reese Winters, Rachel Winters, Selene Valdez, Annabeth Jackson- who I have an inclination to think is still alive, by the way, though not even Miss Athena herself believes me… Even those two siblings, Emery and Marilyn Jackson. They're depending on you, too, kiddo."

"Did you just call me kiddo?" Dahlia said indignantly.

"Sure did." The boy took a long drag from his cigarette. "Now. I think this business is taken care of." He turned around to walk away. "Oh, wait," he said, turning around. "One more thing. Whatever you choose in there, you can't go back." He smirked. "And also- your sister looks like a drowned rat in that fancy getup of hers. I don't know why that's what passes for entertainment these days." He shook his head, walking away without another word.

Dahlia gaped after him. She swiveled to the shop. "But, what am I supposed to de-" she trailed off abruptly when she saw that he was gone. There was no reminder that he was ever there, not even the smell of cigarette smoke in the air. "-cide?" she finished to empty air.

Dahlia looked briefly at the shop. She knew that if she was smart, she would turn around and head back to the show. There was no way that she would go in there if Dahlia had even a lick of common sense in her. Yet- Dahlia had never been the levelheaded type. Even her mother had told her that. Dahlia wasn't surprised when she snapped at the biker boy. It was ordinary for her. She had gotten sent to the principal's office twice in her school days- once in fourth grade, and another in fifth. Thankfully, she had transferred schools, so the battle scars there were relatively healed, but Dahlia hadn't changed all that much. She was impulsive- very impulsive.

With another glance up 'Ye Olde Road', she walked across the common ground quickly, mud splashing all over. Dahlia didn't know why she was going into 'Dragon's Breath', but she felt a gut instinct to. It was almost as if something was pulling her there. Something enticing. Something rich.

Dahlia arrived at the shop door. It was simple, a brown, plain door with window panes. This was it. She could walk in the shop, making a decision that would apparently impact a lot of other people, or she could simply walk away. She could go back to Jeannette's show, biting back her jealousy.

At that, the decision was already made. Dahlia had been biting back her jealousy for as long as she could remember, and was finished with that. She thought of the godlike biker boy, with his smoking problem, motorcycle boots, and flashing eyes. She thought of him saying that her sister looked like a drowned rat in her getup. And what passed for entertainment 'these days', as if he had lived for a while.

At that moment, Dahlia realized something: she owed him. Whoever this strange, mysterious boy was, he had made Dahlia feel better about herself than she had in years. She swallowed. "Okay, look," she said to the sky. "I'm trusting you, wherever you are. So you better pull through. Okay?"

It might have just been a coincidence, but lightning crackled, and thunder rolled around the Renaissance fair. Dahlia jumped, wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans. "Jesus," she said, a little breathlessly. "Okay. Got it."

With that, and a deep inhale, she swung open the door. A little brass bell tinkled as she walked in, leaving the distant shouts of the crowd behind her. Dahlia stuffed her hands into her pockets, gazing around the room curiously. It was unlike any other shop that Dahlia had seen. The air was musty, and everything in the shop seemed to be at least a little dusty. There were lines of potion bottles in leather holsters, bows and arrows, and a line of swords, as advertised in the shop windows.

Dahlia coughed a little bit, waving a hand in front of her face. She treaded carefully on the creaky floorboards, wondering why she agreed to come into the shop. Dahlia was just about to turn around to head out of the shop when something gleamed in the corner of her eye.

Dahlia had always been intrigued by shiny things. Her mother used to call her 'Crow' when she was younger for that very reason. As a baby, Dahlia was excited by aluminum foil. She used to play with it- until the day that her mother saw Dahlia chewed on a piece of tin foil. That put an end to that nonsense. Sighing, Dahlia turned around, following the gleam.

She came upon a small glass case. It was musty, speckled with rust and mildew at the edges. Dahlia wiped her thumb along the glass, putting a small streak of clear through the tarnished surface. As she did so, Dahlia got a better look at what was inside the box. She inhaled sharply. Dahlia had never seen anything like it before.

It was a golden apple- impossibly perfect and symmetrical. There was a golden, papery leaf at the top of the golden apple, and a tiny round stem. Without realizing that she was doing so, Dahlia reached a tentative hand out to the apple, her fingers brushing against the case.

"Hello."

Dahlia startled. She then froze, seeing the woman in front of her. Slowly, her jaw unhinged. Before Dahlia was an old woman. She had papery folds of near-translucent skin, dark, blinking onyx eyes, almost completely black, a black, flowing gypsy dress, and a dark pendant at her thin throat. She gasped a bit inadvertently.

The woman smiled pleasantly, her beetle eyes blinking up at Dahlia. "You are interested in the golden apple, then? Wonderful choice." The woman looked at the apple wistfully. "Some of my best work. That apple gave wonderful results. Just wonderful."

"What do you mean?" she said, her voice the only sound in the oddly silent shop. Her fingers brushed out to touch the case behind her back. "What did you use the apple for? I don't understand."

"You mortals rarely do," the woman said quietly, brushing her fingers against a chain of several necklaces. "The apple was special. It's old, too, a relic from times distant past." The woman looked far off. "I am older than you would think, child. One cannot hope to understand my whims."

A shiver ran down her spine. "Just how old is the apple?"

The woman smiled at Dahlia toothily, her yellow teeth bared back behind her thin, cracked lips. She stepped behind her, and pulled a key out of her long black dress. It was made of a strange sort of metal- a sort of bronze, gleaming and bright. She unlocked the padlock on the box, and brought out the apple into her hands. "Feel how old it is, little mortal," she whispered.

Before I could do anything, the woman had clamped her hands onto Dahlia's. She felt a fissure go through her, like an electrical spark. Then, she was transported, into a world that was still her own, but not quite. It was changed, altered ever-so-slightly. Tremors ran through Dahlia's body.

A crowd, dressed in old-style clothes. A man, holding a broadsword over his head, in Greek armor. The crowd around him chanted for him, raising their hands and pumping fists into the air. They chanted his name, celebrating this man for some unknown reason. "Hector! Hector! Hector!" they shouted.

A woman, dressed in a long, flowing gown. She was surreal in her beauty, far more gorgeous than Jeannette could ever hope to be. She turned to me, and I sucked in a breath. She had long, tumbled blonde hair, big brown eyes, and long arms. "What have I done?" she whispered, hugging her arms to her chest, muttering to herself. "Helen of Sparta no longer," she said to herself. "Helen of Troy. This is who you must be now. Helen of Troy." She took a deep breath. "Helen of Troy."

A man stood on a balcony, a bow poised in his arms. Beside him stood a tall, handsome young man. They were both polar opposites: one of the men was dark-haired and tanned, whilst the other man seemed to be glowing, his blonde hair whipping around his head. "I, Apollo," the glowing man said, "guide this arrow. Let it pierce the heel of Achilles."

There was chaos in a courtroom. A woman stood up, impossibly beautiful. "I am the fairest!" she screeched. "I am Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty! How dare you challenge me the right to my beauty! How dare you!"

Dahlia broke from the images with a gasp. The blood went rushing up to her head. She looked back up at the woman, who was smiling proudly, holding the apple out to her. She pressed it down firmly in Dahlia's hands, and leaned in, her sour breath potent. "It's your choice," she murmured. "Choose wisely."

Then, she turned around, gone within a hair's breath. Dahlia sucked in air, feeling as if her lungs had just been deprived. Dahlia looked down at the golden apple cupped in my palm. The woman was gone, nowhere in sight. A cold hard fist settled into her stomach for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

Dahlia looked down at the apple. It struck a chord of fear within her, but at the same time, it seemed to call to her, beckoning. She bit her lip hard, feeling the taste of blood in her mouth, tangible and tart. The apple seemed to glow. Dahlia closed her eyes, and the apple warmed in her hands, sending electrical sparks up her arms. She looked down at the apple nervously, shooting a glance around the shop.

There was no one there. With a deep breath, Dahlia glanced once more around the shop, and, her feet pounding on the creaky floorboards, she opened the door, hearing the tinkle of the bronze bell once more. She emptied out onto 'Ye Olde Street', the apple still clenched in-between her hands.

It seemed that the show had long since left, though Dahlia would daresay that she hadn't been in there long- ten minutes, at most. People were milling about, but no one shed her so much as a glance. Dahlia took a deep breath, walking across the common ground to where she was standing before.

Dahlia spotted a familiar face throughout the crowd. It was the boy, with his dark hair, gleaming eyes, and muscular arms. He stared at her, his mouth pressed down in a firm white line. "Hey!" Dahlia shouted, raising her hand. "Hey!" The boy didn't move; he simply stood there, shaking his head.

"Dahlia! Oh, my God. Mum's been looking all over for you. We've been worried sick." Dahlia turned around briefly, seeing her sister walk through the crowd towards her. Jeannette's cheeks were flushed with a rosy blush, and her blonde hair was tousled, just as always after a show.

"What are you talking about?" Dahlia said, irritated. "I haven't been gone more than fifteen minutes." She shook her head, peering through the crowd.

Jeannette grabbed her arm before Dahlia could turn around. "What are you talking about, Dahls?" she said, confusion seeping into her voice. "You've been gone nearly six hours. The show ended four hours ago. We've been looking for you for simply ages."

"What on earth are you trying to say…" Dahlia said, trailing off. She turned back to Dragon's Breath, and her heart nearly skipped a beat. Where the shop had been, just moments before, there was now a vacant space. "That's impossible," she muttered, taking a step closer.

"What is going on with you?" Jeannette snapped. "Honestly, Dahlia. I understand that you're a teenager and all that, but there's a certain level of maturity that could be used here. Prancing around and playing all these silly games isn't going to help a lick-"

"Look," Dahlia interrupted. "I've got to go. Just tell Mum that I love her, and I just had something to take care of really quick." Dahlia put a hand up, stilling her sister's arguments. "Bye!"

Jeannette's eyes widened. "Dahlia Alderman!" she shouted after Dahlia, who was already running across the common ground. "Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you! Dahlia!"

Dahlia was already gone, sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her. She reached the shop, panting a bit. "Oh, my God," she said. It was a vacant lot- there was nothing inside but dusty floorboards. "Jesus Christ." She looked around desperately, her dark eyes wide. She spotted a dark head of hair walking away, heading down 'Ye Olde Road'.

"Hey!" she screamed, her voice becoming more desperate. People swiveled to look at her. "Hey! Cigarette boy! Please! I need to talk to you!" Dahlia tried to fight her way through the crowd, shoving people aside, but it was fruitless. "Please!" she shouted, breaking down. "I need your help," she said, more to herself.

Dahlia made her way over to the stoop of a nearby shop. She put her head in her hands, shock from all that had happened seeping into her. A tear leaked out of her eye, and she hugged her arms to her chest. As she did so, something bulky connected with her ribcage. Dahlia looked down at golden apple, furrowing her eyes as she saw what looked like a scratch.

On closer inspection, the scratch was not a cut at all. It was a phrase, deliberately fissured into the bright gold of the apple. Dahlia furrowed her eyebrows, straining her eyes and willing them to read it. As she did so, her heart raced faster and faster, thumping in her chest. She read the words over and over again, and had an inkling of what this all meant. She thought to a day in history class, back in seventh grade, when they studied the Greek gods. Dahlia slowly put a hand to her mouth and read it one last time.

In beautiful, elegant, flowery script, these words were inscribed upon the apple:

For the fairest.

A/N: Okay. As I said before, you MUST HAVE basic knowledge of the Trojan War to understand what Dahlia was describing. This will be explained later in the book, but Dahlia is a side character. She isn't important to the plot of the book.

The apple, however...

Well. I think you'll enjoy that, at the very least.

Thanks to all reviewers! Please, please review again! I will answer any and all questions!