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Grover stared at me over the tops of his sunglasses, his bloodshot eyes completely lost. “It’s—it’s Blanche’s photography.”

“So a lot of times, then?”

Grover frowned. “You don’t think... You think Juniper isjealous?”

I imagined a chorus of Obvious Angels singing the Obvious Hymn above his head, but I tried to keep my expression neutral. “Could be?”

“But... Blanche is ademigod. I would never—” He swallowed. “I think I may have said her name a lot.”

The whistle blew for the end of the hundred-meter race. Lee/Lou had won. I clapped and cheered for him along with my teammates, but I decided not to call him by name.

When I turned back to Grover, he was scratching his head like there were ants crawling around under his beret.

“Maybe a dozen times?” he muttered. “Oh, no...”

“Did Juniperaskyou for a photo for her bloom-day gift?”

“Well, sure, she...” Grover hesitated. “Actually, no. I think... maybe it was my idea. Oh. How bad have I messed up?”

I squirmed on the bench. I was the absolute last person who should have been giving advice on personal relationships. Well, maybe the absolute last after Zeus, my dad, and the rest of the Olympian gods. Mostly I just followed Annabeth’s lead, and so far that had worked out pretty well. With any relationship that wasn’t Annabeth and me, I didn’t feel qualified to offer an opinion.

But Grover looked at me with pleading eyes.

“Just be honest with her,” I suggested. “Apologize. Tell her you weren’t thinking. You were being stupid.”

“Right,” he said, nodding slowly. “Like you do with Annabeth.”

“Um... yeah. Maybe ask Juniper whatshe’dlike for her bloom day.”

“But the portrait...” He looked wistfully at his contact sheets—dozens of takes of fake-dead Grover in fake-dead nature. He pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his smock. “I guess you’re right. There’s no place for her to hang it in her juniper hedge anyway. It’s just that Blanche worked so hard....”

I cleared my throat.

“And I’m not going to talk about Blanche anymore,” he corrected himself. “Thanks, Percy.”

He sounded so miserable, I decided maybe a change of subject would be good.

“What about the cloud nymphs?” I prompted. “You said you were going to ask around for more info?”

He perked up. “Right. Right, of course! So I figured I could maybe narrow things down in Greenwich Village, maybe find out where this Gary might hang out. I talked to Phaloa, who talked to Euclymene, and she said she’d noticed some weird energy around Washington Square Park.”

“Weird energy kind of defines Washington Square Park,” I said.

“Yeah, but this... I dunno. She couldn’t give me specifics, but she said a lot of nature spirits have been leaving the place in recent weeks. Grass nymphs, flower nymphs, dryads... they’ve either gone dormant, deep in the soil, or taken a vacation.”

I pictured a crowd of nymphs in diaphanous, leafy dresses, lugging their suitcases up the gangplank of a cruise ship, bound for spring break in Cancún.

“Gary is so terrifying he can scare nature spirits away from their own life sources,” I mused. “You know any monster or god with a name that sounds like Gary?”

“Geryon?”

I shuddered, remembering the three-bodied rancher I’d met during my one and only trip to Texas. “Been there. Killed him. Anyone else?”

“Gar—gary—gany—Ganymede?”

“That would be a plot twist. Let’s assume he didn’t steal his own chalice, though. Anyone else?”

Grover shook his head. “Maybe it rhymes with Gary. Larry? Harry?”