“Who is this man, Pyrrha?” “No one!” Deidameia had seized Achilles’ arm, was tugging at it. At the same time, Achilles answered coolly, “My husband.” I closed my mouth quickly, so I did not gape like a fish. “He is not! That’s not true!” Deidameia’s voice rose high, startling the birds roosting in the rafters. A few feathers wafted down to the floor. She might have said more, but she was crying too hard to speak clearly. Lycomedes turned to me as if for refuge, man to man. “Sir, is this true?” Achilles was squeezing my fingers. “Yes,” I said. “No!” the princess shrieked.
