“She’s married to a prince of Rome now, my honey. She can dare anything she likes.”

They looked across the room as a fanfare of applause started up. Cornelia hadn’t even laid eyes on Marcella since she had walked away naked into the steam of the bathhouse—just heard her name, as the news of her unexpected marriage flashed through the city on the wings of gossip. It took Cornelia a moment now to recognize her sister, standing in the entrance hall with her jeweled hand tucked into Domitian’s arm as Lollia’s grandfather came forward to greet them. A ripple of bows crossed the room—and the buzz of whispered voices rose like soft thunder as Domitian led his new bride into the room.

“I still say it isn’t fair,” Cornelia couldn’t help bursting out. “Vespasian doesn’t have a wife, and neither does Titus, so Marcella’s Imperial hostess now. After everything she’s done, she gets to be first lady of Rome.”

“And maybe Empress one day,” Diana said. “If Domitian ever takes the purple.”

“Well, he won’t,” Lollia snorted. “What did we all learn from this year? No one in line to the throne ever gets there. Marcella will only be Empress if she bumps Vespasian and Titus out of the way.”

“This is Marcella we’re talking about,” Diana pointed out. “Look at her win-loss record so far.”

They all looked at each other. They looked at Marcella, whose jeweled hand was being kissed by half the room.

“She’s in purple,” Lollia said a little sadly. “We all used to dress in the same color for parties.”

The four dashing cousins of the Cornelii, always dressed in harmony. Lollia and Diana had worn various shades of yellow and gold today, to match Cornelia’s saffron bridal cloak, but not Marcella. Cornelia remembered that day at the races little more than a year ago, when they had all put on red with such high hopes of the future. She’d made herself as severe as possible, hoping to look like an empress; Lollia had looked her garish and outrageous self; Marcella had been restrained and unjeweled. But now it was Lollia who looked soft and womanly, Cornelia could feel her own hair coming down in tendrils—and Marcella across the room was stiffly wrapped in heavy silks, her hair prisoned in rigid curls, so many jewels shackled about her neck that she could hardly move. She looked across the room at Cornelia, and Cornelia looked back, but then Domitian’s hand descended possessively on Marcella’s arm. Cornelia saw how her sister dropped her eyes to the floor as she trailed in his wake.

“What are we going to do about her?” Lollia asked, somber.