Kassandra drained her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why? She’s lost to me now.” Was this her fourth cup? Or her fifth?
The woman sitting next to her shifted closer. “I’m a poet. And you seem a good story.”
“You want a story, poet?” Kassandra didn’t know the woman’s name. “I can tell you an epic tale. How I killed monsters and men and hunted the heads of a hydra all across these fucking islands.” She reached for the wine.
The jug slid outside Kassandra’s grasp. She blinked, then saw the poet dragging it across the table. First this annoying woman had given Kassandra the wine, and now she was taking it away.
“I’m more interested in a different sort of story,” the poet said, picking up the jug. She refilled her cup, then Kassandra’s. “Pramnian wine. They make it here, on Lesbos. The grapes wait on the vine longer than anywhere else, growing sweeter the more they’re denied the harvest. Once picked, they’re piled high enough to crush themselves under their own weight. The result is as close to ambrosia as mortal hands can make it.”
Kassandra knew of Pramnian wine and how sweet it could be. It had been the taste on her tongue the night she and Kyra had— She shook her head and stared at the dark liquid in her cup. This wine didn’t taste as good, but then again, nothing tasted as good, no color looked as bright, everything lesser now that there was no Kyra to share it with.
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