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The mix of bird poop and Cassie’s ambrosia puke is enough to drive me from my room. We did our best to clean everything up, and Fern even cast some sort of air-freshening spell, but Tina and I have still been dealing with the lingering scent of stomach acid. Plus, a hungover Stymphalian bird is not the best roommate. It was beating its head against the window when I woke up this morning, apparently believing that the best way to get rid of a headache is to bash your head the rest of the way in.
The night before brought a nice reprieve; I haven’t thought about my parentage for twelve full hours. But daylight—and a hot shower—brought everything back into perspective. I couldn’t drown my sorrows in ambrosia, and I couldn’t forget Adrianna Aspostolos—or the letter she’d written to Metis, a
