“So, how is Arcady doing?” asked Hestia.
They had retired to a corner table with a bottle of Crown Royal, the contents of which Zene was drinking with more cultured relish than the amateur wine-tasters hovering about.
He carefully considered his next words, which might make the difference between one Crown Royal or two.
“Chipper. A bit too chipper. I can’t stand the man, he’s so fucking happy.”
Hestia held a glass of the whiskey in elegant fingers, but didn’t drink it. “If you feel that way, why are you staying with him?”
