“No!” Arachne cried. “That is unacceptable. It no longer brings me any pleasure to contemplate. I must have my work on Mount Olympus! What must I do?”
Annabeth shook her head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just push me into Tartarus or something.”
“I refuse!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Kill me.”
“I do not take orders from you! Tell me what I must do! Or…or—”
“Or you’ll kill me?”
“Yes! No!” The spider pressed her front legs against her head. “I
Annabeth tried to contain her excitement. Her plan might actually work…but she still had to convince Arachne to do something impossible. She remembered some good advice Frank Zhang had given her:
“I suppose I could pull a few strings,” she conceded.
“I excel at pulling strings!” said Arachne. “I’m a spider!”
“Yes, but to get your work shown on Mount Olympus, we’d need a proper audition. I’d have to pitch the idea, submit a proposal, put together a portfolio. Hmm…do you have any headshots?”
“Headshots?”
“Glossy black-and-white…Oh, never mind. The audition piece is the most important thing. These tapestries are excellent. But the gods would require something
Arachne snarled. “Are you suggesting that these are not my best work? Are you challenging me to a contest?”
“Oh, no!” Annabeth laughed. “Against me? Gosh, no. You are
“Of course I do!”
“Well, I certainly think so. But the audition, you know…it’s a formality. I’m afraid it would be very difficult. Are you sure you don’t just want to kill me?”
“Stop saying that!” Arachne screeched. “What must I make?”
“I’ll show you.” Annabeth unslung her backpack. She took out Daedalus’s laptop and opened it. The delta logo glowed in the dark.
“What is that?” Arachne asked. “Some sort of loom?”
“In a way,” Annabeth said. “It’s for weaving ideas. It holds a diagram of the artwork you would build.”
Her fingers trembled on the keyboard. Arachne lowered herself to peer directly over Annabeth’s shoulder. Annabeth couldn’t help thinking how easily those needlelike teeth could sink into her neck.
She opened her 3-D imaging program. Her last design was still up—the key to Annabeth’s plan, inspired by the most unlikely muse ever: Frank Zhang.
Annabeth did some quick calculations. She increased the dimensions of the model, then showed Arachne how it could be created—strands of material woven into strips, then braided into a long cylinder.
The golden light from the screen illuminated the spider’s face. “You want me to make that? But this is nothing! So small and simple!”
“The actual size would be much bigger,” Annabeth cautioned. “You see these measurements? Naturally it must be large enough to impress the gods. It may look simple, but the structure has incredible properties. Your spider silk would be the perfect material—soft and flexible, yet hard as steel.”
“I see…” Arachne frowned. “But this isn’t even a tapestry.”
“That’s why it’s a challenge. It’s outside your comfort zone. A piece like this—an abstract sculpture—is what the gods are looking for. It would stand in the entry hall of the Olympian throne room for every visitor to see. You would be famous forever!”
Arachne made a discontented hum in her throat. Annabeth could tell she wasn’t going for the idea. Her hands started to feel cold and sweaty.
“This would take a great deal of web,” the spider complained. “More than I could make in a year.”
Annabeth had been hoping for that. She’d calculated the mass and size accordingly. “You’d need to unravel the statue,” she said. “Reuse the silk.”
Arachne seemed about to object, but Annabeth waved at the Athena Parthenos like it was nothing. “What’s more important—covering that old statue or proving your artwork is the best? Of course, you’d have to be incredibly careful. You’d need to leave enough webbing to hold the room together. And if you think it’s too difficult—”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Okay. It’s just…Athena said that creating this braided structure would be impossible for any weaver, even her. So if you don’t think you can—”
“Athena said that?”
“Well, yeah.”
