“Sooner than you think.” Diana turned on her heel, marched up to the loudest of the whisperers, grabbed a handful of the woman’s bobbing ringlets, and gave a swift yank. The woman squeaked, making a vain grab for her wig as Diana wound her arm like a discus thrower. The mass of false curls landed in the fountain with a splash, and Diana aimed a glare around the suddenly silent caldarium. “One more nasty word about my cousin from any of you,” she warned, “and you go into the fountain after that wig. Head first.”

Lollia giggled. Cornelia blushed and ducked out of the caldarium, but she pressed Diana’s hand in wordless thanks as her little cousin sauntered after. The door swung shut on the bald matron’s shriek.

“Well, that was amusing,” Lollia said as more bathhouse attendants came forward with perfumes and powders and wine. “Yes, a face mask for me, please—nail varnish for Cornelia here, maybe red to match the bridal veil? And something to take the calluses off Diana’s hands. No, a pumice stone isn’t going to do the job. Maybe a chisel . . .”

Marcella came through the door wrapped in a towel, flushed pink from her swim. “I didn’t mean to be so long. The water was wonderful.” She shook her wet hair around her neck as she joined them on the long marble benches, but not fast enough. Lollia pointed triumphantly as the slaves began fluttering around them.

“Someone’s been putting marks on your neck! Don’t tell me our slimy little junior prince of Rome finally wore down your defenses?”

“Domitian?” Cornelia wrinkled her nose as she stretched her toes into a slave girl’s lap for filing and varnishing. Somehow, she’d have rather had Diana tumbling that tall Briton than see her sister in bed with that mean-tempered little thug.

“He’s very tiresome sometimes.” Marcella leaned her head back as a slave girl moved in with combs and scented pomades. “But he has his uses.”

“A source for your next history?” Diana asked. Two bathhouse attendants had captured her hands and were moaning over the calluses.

“Oh, I’ve given up writing histories.” Marcella closed her eyes as the comb stroked through her wet hair. “No one will ever read them, and anyway it’s far more interesting seeing what happens in real life.”

“Is it,” said Diana.

“Lollia, you look like a ghost,” Cornelia laughed. A slave girl was applying a bread paste all over Lollia’s face and neck to whiten and tighten the skin.

“ ‘I want to see what happens.’ ” Diana’s spear-straight gaze was still narrowed on Marcella. “That’s another favorite phrase of yours, this year.”

“I do want to see what happens.” Marcella opened her eyes, blinking. “It’s been an interesting year.”