Philippus glances up at the departing two, curious as to where they're going and how long it will take to replace the one who turned himself into a hellhound.

. . . of all the transformations--but it worked. If she'd had her real bracelets it could have gone differently.

She glances back at Emma, curious as to what she'll do, but stoic. She's certain the woman's going to order her killed, and the only matter left is how Philippus is going to face it.

She wishes again, before she puts it aside, she could have died in Hippolyta's service; she regrets that she's so many stories from Gaia's palm; she regrets not having spoken more of peace, although to Slayers the teachings were not of so much immediate help.

She will never admit to anyone her gratitude that the hands restraining her are, at least, not men's.