“Thank the gods,” Lollia groaned, and peered around the throng of guests: senators, scholars, and historians all. “There’s not a one under sixty besides us!”

“Not your kind of party, perhaps,” Marcella agreed. Certainly not like the glittering parties Emperor Otho threw every night now to light up the Domus Aurea. Here the room was undecorated, the buzz of conversation was sober and sprinkled with Greek quotations, and there were far more togas and bald heads than silk dresses and painted faces. “Don’t yawn! At least not openly.”

“You should have taken Cornelia. She never yawns in public.”

“She’s still in her bedroom, slinging vases at the door if anyone knocks.” Marcella didn’t know what to do about her sister, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could do until Cornelia unlocked her door.

“I wish she’d let me visit,” Lollia fretted.

“I’d leave it a while. She still won’t speak your name, since you married Otho’s brother.”

“Oh, dear. I don’t even like him all that much. He’s handsome enough, but he cracks his knuckles all the time . . .”

“Well, it’s not just him. You’re first lady of Rome now, since Otho doesn’t have any wife or sisters. You got Cornelia’s place.”

“Like I wanted it to begin with. It’s not as grand as it sounds, you know—Otho doesn’t need me to host his parties or manage his guests. He does that himself, and I just pay for everything. That’s what being the first lady in Rome is.” Lollia shook her head, half weary and half angry. “Even if it were different—Marcella, I’m not like you and Cornelia. I don’t want to be important. I just want a few pretty dresses, and nice parties with people who tell good jokes, and a handsome man to come home to. Does an empress ever really get that?” Lollia shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”

Marcella eyed her cousin a moment—was everyone in the family turning moody now? She’s been quieter since her last wedding. Quieter for her, anyway. “Lollia—”

“I thought you’d come,” a voice interrupted them. Marcella looked up from her chair to see a stocky boy in a tunic, perhaps eighteen, staring down at her. He looked vaguely familiar. “I asked about you, and they said you liked histories and readings—this kind of thing. So I came to see you.”

He was the younger son of the Governor of Judaea—Marcella vaguely remembered meeting him the night Piso had been acclaimed heir. Awkward, black-eyed, eighteen-year-old Titus Flavius Domitianus. “How nice of you.”

“I like histories too,” the boy continued abruptly. “I’ll visit you, and we can talk about them.” He continued to stare at her, hands clasped behind his back. Like a child looking at a toy he wants to take home.