“An hour—” she murmured between kisses. “Maybe two—”

But two hours wasn’t enough, and Cornelia found herself running back through the streets, heart hammering in her throat, slipping through the slaves’ gate and hoping no one had noticed how long she’d been gone. Two hours here, three hours there—it was never long enough.

“Don’t take any risks,” Drusus urged. “You’ve got more to lose than me.”

“You’ve got your life to lose.” She twisted her head on the pillow to look at him.

“That’s already lost,” he shrugged. “They just haven’t collected payment yet.” He cupped a hand around Cornelia’s cheek, and she shivered at his touch. “You be careful. At least—”

“What?”

He reddened, but his chestnut eyes were steady. “You are taking care, aren’t you?” His rough fingers brushed her belly mutely. “The madam, she said patrician women knew what to do . . .”

“No need for that.” Cornelia shook her head. “I’m barren.” Still a painful word to speak, but she forced it out matter-of-factly. “It makes things easy now, though, doesn’t it? Otherwise I’d have to ask my cousin Lollia for those Egyptian tricks that keep her out of trouble, and Lollia can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

“Be careful about everything else, too.” He kissed the tip of Cornelia’s nose.

“I’m a fine patrician lady—I know how to sneak!”

But somehow she couldn’t manage to be careful.

For four days the following week, Tullia fancied herself ill and dumped the house’s supervision on Cornelia. Meals had to be planned, the slaves supervised, little Paulinus tended, and there was no time to spare for the squalid whorehouse in the Subura slums. Cornelia ran there all the way the following morning when Tullia finally pronounced herself well again, and when she saw the smile that split Drusus’s face she seized his hand and dragged him back through the narrow stinking hallway toward his room, shrugging down the shoulders of her gown before the flimsy door was even closed. “Gods, I missed you,” he groaned against her mouth, and they didn’t even make it to the bed. Four days was too long, three days was too long. Cornelia came every other day, dry-mouthed, every inch of her skin burning. “They think I’m at the bathhouse—they think I’m at the races—they think I went to bed early.” Any excuse she could find.

“You should go.” Drusus ran a hand down the curve of her back at the end of a long hot afternoon. “Most people don’t take five-hour baths.”

“Mmm. No.” But she nestled against his hard shoulder, drowsing another half hour in the baking heat instead of getting up. “Oh, Juno’s mercy, is it twilight?” she exclaimed, looking at the slant of light through his narrow slit of a window. “Where’s my gown?”