“Aetius is dead,” Regina said. But she said it brightly, as if it were a joke. “Dead, dead, dead. He died and left me all alone with you. Why should I care what he would have thought?” She got up and skipped lightly. “Oh, Carta, you’ve become such an old woman! I’ll deal with the future when it comes. What else can I do?”

Carta glared at her. But she said, “Oh, come here and be still. We aren’t done yet.” She bade her lean down and carefully painted the charcoal around her eyes. “There,” she said at last. She held up a hand mirror.

Even Regina herself was startled by the effect. The darkness of the charcoal paste made her eyes shine, while the pink of her light woolen tunic was perfect for bringing out their smoky gray. As she slipped on her new bronze rings Regina’s mood of anticipation deepened. Briefly she thought of Aetius, and the responsibility he had tried to instill in her. You are the family now, Regina . . . But she was seventeen, and her blood was wine-rich; surrounded by her jewelry and clothes and cosmetics she felt light, airy, floating like a leaf on a breeze, far above the earthy stonelike concerns embodied by the matres.

She said, “Carta, I hear what you say.” She took more steps around the room. “But I’m only dancing.”

Carta forced a smile. “And maybe I don’t dance enough. Dance, then. Dance for all you’re worth! But—”

“Oh, Carta, always a but!”

“Be careful who you dance with.”

“You mean Amator?” Her translucent mood turned to irritation. “You never did approve of him, did you?”

“He was too old, you too young, to be flirting the way you used to.”

“But that’s years ago. He’s different, Carta.” And so am I, she thought, in a dark warm secret core of herself, which contemplated possibilities she didn’t dare broach even in her own mind. “Carta, Amator is your cousin. You should trust him.”

“I know I should.” Carta eyed her. “Just be careful, Regina.”

“Carta—”

“Promise me.”

“Yes. All right, I promise . . .”

Carta surprised Regina by hugging her, briefly. They stepped apart, both a little embarrassed.

“What was that for?”

“I’m sorry, child. It’s just, made up like that, you look so beautiful. That fire in your eyes when you argue with me—you have spirit, and I can’t blame you for that. And—well, sometimes you look so like your mother.”

She couldn’t have said anything that would have moved Regina more. Regina touched her cheek. “Dear Carta. You mustn’t worry so. Now help me fix my hair; this bone pin just won’t stay in place . . .”

But Carta’s face, already lined though she was only in her midtwenties herself, remained creased with concern.