“You drank too much. Just admit it.” Phoibe observed.
Kassandra set her face in as determined, focused, intense frown as she could muster, and turned to look at her companion, the girl Phoibe. A harder task than you would normally think, with the way her brain was swimming about in her skull, like a ship in a stormy sea.
“Ugh.” The Spartan put a hand to her mouth, feeling her stomach rebel. “I did not.” She gulped.
By the gods, that old dog Markos could put it away.
Phoibe slid her small hand into Kassandra's free palm, and almost imperceptibly started leading her along.
The two were wending their way home, through the Kephallonian hills, back from Markos' most recent purchase, the vineyard. Which to Kassandra was nothing more than an enormous way to goad the Cyclops into coming after them again. She'd have to be on alert, for a while. Someone had to watch out for Markos.
And Phoibe. Who despite Kassandra's best intentions, and efforts to get the gir