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  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  The Crown of Zeus: The Library of Athena Book 1

  Copyright © 2008 by Christine Norris

  ISBN: 1-59998-556-X

  Edited by Lindsey McGurk

  Cover by Christine Clavel

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2008

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  The Crown of Zeus

  Christine Norris

  Dedication

  In memory of Pop-Pop, who taught me three things—

  History is cool.

  Always take a nap after dinner.

  Never be afraid to be who you are.

  And for Jimmy, who has the soul of a wild adventurer.

  Chapter One: New Beginning

  “But Dad,” Megan said. “I don’t want to go. This is ridiculous!”

  “Sorry, Megums, but we don’t have a choice,” her father, Donald Montgomery, replied gently. He slurped up a chow mein noodle and patted his daughter’s hand. “I know it will be hard, but my firm is transferring me. It’s quite a big promotion actually. We have to go.”

  Megan slumped into her seat and picked at her chicken and broccoli. It was her favorite take-out meal, but she didn’t feel like eating. She loved living in the city—she had grown up here. Everything she had ever known was here. She was supposed to start high school in just a couple of weeks. This wasn’t just an inconvenience, it was a major disaster.

  “This sucks. I don’t want to move.” She winced, aware of how childish she was acting. They’d had this same argument every night this week, and Megan had made no progress. “There won’t be anything to do.”

  “Sure there will. There’s a stable full of horses to ride and all the grounds to explore. And there’s a village just down the road. There will be lots to see and plenty to do. And don’t say ‘sucks’.”

  Megan put her head back and let her tongue hang from her mouth. “Horses, Dad, come on! They stink! I don’t want to explore anything. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not a little kid. I pretty much like to talk on the phone and shop, okay?” She tried not to pout like the child she claimed she wasn’t. She would win this argument by making her father see how much better off she would be if she stayed where she was, even if that meant annoying him into letting her stay.

  “I’ll bet there isn’t any place to shop either. There’s not a good store anywhere outside Fifth Avenue. And you know there’s not a revival house within 50 miles of this place you’re dragging me off to, is there?”

  Megan loved black and white movies from Hollywood’s Golden Age. The great actresses like Katharine Hepburn—her favorite—Jean Harlow, Ava Gardner, Bette Davis, Rita Hayworth and the handsome leading men like Cary Grant, Clark Gable, and Spencer Tracy.

  One of her favorite things was to go to the revival movie houses tucked into the corners of the city. She loved the glamour, the simplicity of their lives and the way they lived and how it all turned out right in the end. Modern romantic comedies couldn’t hold a candle to them.

  They also reminded her of her mother. She and Megan had spent many rainy Saturday afternoons together, watching those movies and munching popcorn.

  Right now, Megan couldn’t see any way that this move, which her father was so happy about, could turn out well.

  Her father reached between the white and red take-out cartons and took Megan’s hand. “Aw pumpkin, come on. The manor is just forty-five minutes outside of London, a quick train ride. There are more than enough shops there, and we’ll make lots of trips. I’m sure there’s a movie house or two in the city, and it’s not like you don’t have all of those movies on DVD. You can talk to your friends online, just like they were right next door. You won’t miss New York, I promise.”

  Megan switched tactics. “Oh, and I’ll be in a new school where I don’t know anyone! I have to leave all my friends, all the girls on the team. Why can’t I just stay here and live with Becky? Her parents said it would be okay.” Becky Reinhart was her best friend and field hockey teammate; they’d known each other since kindergarten. She was like the sister Megan never had.

  “No.” He gave her a stern, warning look. “And I don’t want you asking me again. We are staying together and that is that. The Reinharts are good people, but I will not have someone else raising my daughter, no matter how nice they are. There would be too many miles between us. I cannot have that.”

  Megan leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “What, so I don’t even get a say?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not fair. I’m part of the family too.”

  “Nobody ever said life was fair.” Her father went back to his dinner, a clear signal to Megan he was finished with the discussion.

  Megan gritted her teeth. She wanted to scream at him, to throw a tantrum like she did when she was six. There was no way she was going to go without a fight. But her father could be just as stubborn as she was. He wasn’t going to budge. So instead, she conceded the argument for another evening. She knew how to choose her battles, and there was still a little time left to fight this one. Maybe she could get Becky’s mom to call her dad and talk to him. He might be more receptive to an adult making the suggestion.

  “Sorry, Dad.” Still stewing, she looked at her plate and scooped up some rice with her chopsticks.

  Her father’s eyes softened. “You’ll make new friends, Megums. You are such an outgoing young lady. I don’t think making friends will be a problem. You’ll see.”

  “Whatever.” Megan ate the rest of her dinner in silence.

  Once the table was cleared and the dishwasher loaded, Megan stalked to her room and flicked on the light. She fought through the piles of packing boxes, made her way toward her bed and flopped down. She looked at all her things, separated into three piles; boxes with things to be given away, boxes with things to be put in storage and boxes of things to make the trip to the new home.

  “I don’t want to go, I have a life here,” Megan said angrily to the framed black and white poster of Katharine Hepburn that still hung on the wall. She shook her auburn curls back from her face, reached across to her nightstand and picked up a photo in a delicate silver frame. The woman in the picture looked like an older version of Megan.

  “Mom,” Megan whispered to the picture. Her anger melted, and tears splashed onto her cheeks. “I wish you were here.”

  She closed her eyes and remembered the day her mother died. That had been three years ago, in a car crash on her way home from a visit with her parents upstate. For months afterward, Megan hadn’t been able to look at any picture of her mother. Her father, in his usual clueless manner, had given this one to her as a birthday gift last year. It had since become her favorite picture, and she often spoke to it, hoping one day it would give her some advice. This had been her mother’s home too. Leaving here would mean leaving part of her behind.

  “I know you would be here if you could. None of this is fair, is it? You’re gone, and now it’s just me an
d Dad, and I guess I should just go with him to England and be quiet about it, huh? It wouldn’t be fair to leave him alone, half a world away, would it?”

  She already knew the answer.

  * * *

  Four days and an eight-hour plane flight later, they emerged from Heathrow Airport under gray and gloomy skies. Megan let out a small groan and shook her head. “Great.”

  Her father ruffled Megan’s curls. “Come on.”

  Megan brushed his hand away. “Dad, don’t, you’ll mess up my hair. It probably looks like bedhead already.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “You look fine, dear. The firm was supposed to send a car to pick us up. Let’s go find it, okay?” He walked toward a line of shiny black and white cabs idling at the curb.

  Megan picked up her carry-on bag and trudged after him. At the end of the line was a sleek black Town Car. The man in front of it held a card with Montgomery written on it. Megan’s father held open the door and Megan climbed in. The driver—a pudgy, pale man with pudding cheeks and twinkling eyes—put their bags in the trunk and got behind the wheel.

  “Are we all set, then?” he said in a smooth British accent, and tipped his cap. Here was a surprise—many of the drivers in New York were rude.

  “You know where we’re headed?” Megan’s father asked.

  The driver nodded. “Surely do. We’ll be there in no time at all.” He put the car into gear and steered away from the curb.

  It was a strange sensation to be driving on the left-hand side of the road. Megan watched the airport slip away and the long highway stretch out ahead. Rain spattered the windows as they drove away from London and into the countryside. The road was banked high on both sides, blocking the view. Once in a while there was a hint of a building—some tall trees, a house or a church’s steeple. The driver talked as he steered the car through the traffic, telling them interesting tidbits about the towns that passed by unseen. Megan wasn’t really paying attention, and she really didn’t care. She was still thinking about the city she left behind.

  Soon the rain ended and the sun peeked through the clouds, laying low in the west.

  Almost an hour after leaving the airport, they turned off the highway—the driver called it a “motorway”—and onto a small two lane road.

  After miles of dreary scenery—empty hills, fields and livestock, mostly—they drove into a small village. It was quaint, with narrow, cobbled streets and a mix of stucco and stone buildings. A bakery, a bookshop, a pub, a coffee shop, and a butcher’s shop lined the main street. At the end sat the town square, filled by an ancient stone church with colorful stained glass windows and a small cemetery. Several people rode by on bicycles, packages in baskets on the handlebars or strapped onto back.

  Megan was almost impressed. Okay, it’s cute. But I’d bet nothing interesting has happened here since Queen Elizabeth the First.

  On the other side of the square was a train station. People scurried along the platform, getting on and off a waiting train.

  “That’s how we’ll get to London,” her father said. “Just jump on the train and we’ll be there. Quite an adventure, huh?”

  Megan leaned her face on her hand. “Yeah, sure it is, Dad,” she muttered.

  “We’re nearly there folks,” the driver said in a cheery tone. “Not far now.”

  Good. Much further and we’d drive off the face of the earth.

  Beyond the village a low wall of piled loose stones separated the road and an empty field. On the opposite side, a row of cottages sat close to the road, each with its own little gate that guarded stone walkways and tiny squares of front yard.

  The low wall ended, and a higher one of block began. The car slowed. There was a break in the wall, and the car turned onto a gravel drive. A tall wrought-iron gate stood open, and the car pulled in.

  Her father gave the driver a puzzled look. “Are you sure this is the right house?”

  “Yes sir. This is the place.”

  “This just seems so…grand. The big drive, the wall, the gate. And we haven’t even seen the house yet. The girl at the firm said it was a country house. But if you say so, I guess this is it.”

  Megan looked at the top of the gate and snorted a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” her father asked.

  “Is that, uh, the name of our house or something?”

  He looked at the letters of scrolled iron above the gate as they passed beneath them. The Parthenon, it said. He scratched the back of his balding head. “I guess it is. It’s not uncommon to name estates. But you’re right, Megums, it is a strange name.”

  Who, Megan wondered, would name a house in England after an ancient Greek temple? A mystery, one she wasn’t sure she cared enough about to solve, but it was curious.

  The driver guided the car up the tree-lined drive, and Megan got her first glimpse of The Parthenon.

  The house was enormous. Three stories of rough gray stone rose from the ground like a fortress. It was longer than it was tall, at least a hundred and fifty feet. More chimneys than Megan could count grew from the many peaks of the blue-gray slate rooftop. Hundreds of windows winked at her as they reflected the sun.

  The car glided into the driveway turnaround. In the middle of the loop was a marble fountain. A sculpture of a Greek woman, her stone dress draped over her, stood in a circular basin. Water poured into the basin from the pitcher she held under one arm.

  The driver stopped the car at the entrance. Wide stone steps led up to the heavy oak front door.

  Megan’s father looked at her, eyes twinkling. “Pretty nice digs, huh? Almost like living in the middle of Central Park.”

  It was like the park, except there was no bustling city on the other side of the gates. Just a big bunch of nothing.

  The front door opened and a tall, thin, bald man in black tails marched down the steps and opened her father’s door, then stood back and bowed deeply.

  The man straightened. “Welcome, sir. My name is Bailey. I am the butler and custodian of The Parthenon.”

  Her father got out of the car and nodded. “Thank you, uh, Bailey. We are glad to be here.”

  Uh, wrong. We’re not glad about anything. Although the big house was impressive, she still would rather have been home in New York. There would be no walking to the store or a friend’s house here. She was stranded.

  Her father motioned to her as she climbed out of the car. “This is my daughter, Megan.”

  Bailey tilted his head toward her, and she felt a cold shiver run up her back. The butler’s face was long and thin, his hair a fringe of white around a bald top. Creepy. He looked down his nose at her.

  “Miss.” He turned back to her father. “I will see to the driver and your bags. If you would, please wait for me in the entrance hall.”

  Megan and her father walked into a cavernous entrance hall. A floor of marble, white swirled with black, gleamed from beneath vibrant Persian rugs. A rectangular mirror in a gilt frame reflected Megan’s look of surprise from the wall on the right. Next to the mirror and through an archway was a cozy room with a huge fireplace. Shelves of books stood on either side, like sentries. In front of the fireplace sat two low, overstuffed armchairs of burgundy leather.

  Beneath a multi-paned window that looked as if it belonged in a cathedral, a wide staircase with oak banisters swept up the center of the room to a landing. More steps led upward, off to the left and right. On the landing sat another sculpture of a woman, this one much bigger than the one in the fountain. Her left arm reached toward them, an owl perched on her hand. Her other arm was at her side, a long spear in her grip.

  Megan couldn’t take her eyes off of it. The woman was so beautiful, and at the same time strong. “Cool.”

  “Cool indeed,” her father said.

  A large painting in a heavy frame hung on the left-hand wall. Megan took a closer look. It was beautiful; it depicted several young ballerinas standing at a practice barre. It looked familiar.

  “That was painted
by Degas.”

  A petite woman, with skin the color of coffee, stood in the archway to the right. Megan wondered how long she had been standing there.

  “Excuse me?” Megan said.

  “The picture. It was painted by Degas,” the woman said in a thick French accent. “The French impressionist.”

  “That’s why I recognized it. I know who Degas is. We went to an exhibit, on a class trip to the Metropolitan Museum.”

  The woman gave a sad sigh. “This painting was one of Sir Gregory’s favorites.”

  Bailey entered from behind them, bags in hand. He placed them on the floor and closed the front door. “This is Miranda,” he said, indicating the woman. “She is the head housekeeper.”

  Megan’s father extended his hand to her. “I am Donald Montgomery, and this is my daughter, Megan. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Miranda did not take his hand, but dropped a small curtsey. “When you are settled into your rooms, tea will be served in the parlor.”

  Megan’s father pulled his hand back, looked at the palm as if he expected to see some bit of dirt, and wiped it on the leg of his pants. There was an awkward silence.

  “Miranda, please have these bags brought to Miss Megan and Mr. Montgomery’s rooms as soon as possible.”

  Miranda gave a small nod, then turned and walked away, her footsteps noiseless. It made Megan a little nervous that the woman could be so quiet.

  “Please follow me.” The butler led them across the entrance hall and up the staircase. When they reached the landing, Megan’s father stopped to inspect the large statue. “This is beautiful. Where did it come from?”

  Bailey’s face remained stony. “I believe, sir, this particular sculpture was discovered by Sir Gregory on one of his expeditions to Greece. It is the goddess Athena. This was Sir Gregory’s particular favorite. His pride and joy, if you will.”

  Megan raised her hand, as if she were in class. “Uh, okay, question. Who was Sir Gregory?”