Unfortunately, getting of here to Mary is struggling up the steps to the bedroom we slept in last night then passing out from pain. She wakes up at random intervals and I try to slip some nectar down her throat to heal the wound faster. My first aid skills aren't brilliant – I would never be a doctor, anyway – but I manage to stop the gaping wound in her side from bleeding although a lot of that probably had to be the effects of the godly drink taking effect. Even though her wound is no longer bleeding, it is so deep that it won't heal immediately. It might not even fully heal for days but I can't risk giving her any more nectar; even though she's annoying sometimes, I'd rather she stayed alive.

I want to get out of the awful B&B as fast as possible but Mary is in no state to be moved. I try scouting the other rooms for anything useful to our quest: some small weapons, food or any information at all about an entrance to the labyrinth...the book! In all the chaos, I had completely forgotten about the small notebook I had slipped into my backpack.

I take it out and the small triangular symbol on the spine seems to burn brighter. I try to think about the classes I'd had at Camp Half-Blood about decoding Ancient Greek symbols. I'd never really been good at that class. Children of Hermes like me don't do well in classroom situations due to our short attention spans (even by demigod standards) and the only thing I can remember is that Annabeth Chase had been in that class. She'd been a fellow camper at the time. Now she is my enemy.

I open the notebook. The pages are old and worn around the edges like they'd been turned again and again. But there is no writing. The lines of the pages are empty, almost mocking. I am so angry that I almost throw the notebook at the wall in frustration when slanted, cursive words begin to form themselves on the page:

Property of the Maker.

"Who is the Maker?" I say out loud. The words don't change and I realise it must be a challenge. I need to figure out who the notebook belongs to before it reveals its secrets to me. I need to figure out what the Δ means.

I stare at the bookshelf that takes up most of the room. None of the books catch my eye like the notebook did but there has to be a book about Ancient Greek symbols. There is a book about training your demon dog to rollover! There has to be a book about who the notebook belongs to. I run my fingers along the spines: some are old containers of scrolls and look to be from Ancient Greece itself but some are brand new. They aren't organised in any order. The complete works of Homer is next to a copy of Twilight which is next to a manual about growing potted tomatoes. Some are in languages I don't even understand even if I can make out the letter with my dyslexia.

Then my eyes fall on a huge, leather-bound monstrosity. It is so big that it seems unfair to call it a book. I need both hands to pull it off the packed shelf. On its spine, Greek letters spell out σύμβολα του παλιού κόσμουwhich I think translates to "Symbols of the Old World".

"Yes!" I shout so loud that Mary groans in her state of unconsciousness.

I scan through pages and pages of useless symbols for the Olympian gods, places of worship, abbreviations. I almost give up hope when I finally spot it. The symbol is so small that I almost skip past it but I stop turning the pages just in time.

"Daedalus! Of course!" How could I have been so stupid? I knew the labyrinth was created by the old inventor, Daedalus. How could I have not put two and two together?

I ditch the huge book of symbols and pick up Daedalus's notebook again. The words I saw before are still stubbornly displayed on the page. I fish a pen out of my backpack and write Daedalus.

Nothing happens for too long. Then, the words change:

Welcome.

I watch as the pages fill themselves with drawings, diagrams, doodles and countless notes. The same cursive writing, sometimes in English and sometimes in Greek, has obliterated the pages with ideas far beyond the Ancient Greek times. There are rough sketches of planes and flushing toilets and I realise that Daedalus must have been some crazy genius to have thought of all this stuff.

About halfway through the notebook, a list catches my eye. There are no drawings on the page, no doodles or random notes like "Come back to idea of metal wings?" It's so simple that it stands out. It is a list of places: Long Island, Alcatraz, Texas, Washington State, Manhattan, San Francisco, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, Tartarus...Bishop! There are scribbles in Greek which must provide more details about the other locations but right now I don't care about them. I focus on deciphering the message under Bishop. It takes me a good few minutes – my Ancient Greek is not as great as it could be – and I finally get something.

"Miss Hayley's Bait and Tackle?"

It's not much to go on. It's virtually nothing, actually, but it's the best lead we've got so far.

Mary begins to stir in the next bed. "What happened?" she groans, "Why are we still here?"

"You passed out," I reply, already shoving Daedalus's notebook into my backpack and tugging on my shoes. "Are you ready to go? Because we need to pay a visit to a certain Miss Hayley."