IT’S LIKE OLD TIMES, Meg thought as they ambled home. Old times of a scant few weeks ago when they were all safe in Arcadia, traipsing through its quads, dodging college students intent on Frisbee playing or love affairs or anything but their studies, trudging up the steep hills only for the joy of running breakneck down them again. With the excitement behind them (how little Meg knew!), she felt the preternatural calm that follows unexpected action and unexpected success. Only a pebble in her pocket remained of her adventure. Was that me, she wondered? Was it Meg Morgan to whom a monster paid homage before all those amazed eyes? She, who hated to be before a crowd, had suddenly known the power of leadership. No, she told herself, I will not be the next Guardian. But the power was intoxicating, not so much for itself but for the things she could do with it. That one distinction separates the tyrants from the good kings. Why, she had saved her sister, and apparently a baby fairy (which she still had to get to the bottom of) and Dickie.
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