The tavern was quiet by the time Hermes made it back to the servant's quarters.
Aphrodite had dragged Somner to an inn down the road, muttering something about him "needing a proper bed if he's going to survive the morning after."
Not that she had much choice. Somner had passed out on the dance floor after ten pints of whatever barley-scented hell the Irish brewed, slurring half-formed complaints about how "me granddaddy gets action with Heimon while I don't" before face-planting into a fiddler's chair.
He did, however, have to share a bed with Apple.
It wasn't unusual here. Heimon and Aible shared a bed, so the locals thought nothing of it. But Hermes felt his skin crawl every time he rolled over and saw that face. His face. His other self. Apple lay flat on his back with those mismatched eyes staring unblinking into the dark, always awake, never moving unless he chose to.
