Just half an hour ago Cornelia had watched her sister dashing into the wetness, chivvied off on some errand of Tullia’s. She’d been gone in an instant behind shifting curtains of rain, and Cornelia’s heart squeezed. The last time I’ll ever see my sister. If she could have just said good-bye . . . but no. Marcella would ruin everything if she knew. Better to get it all finished and done with while she and her sharp all-seeing eyes were safely out of the house. The rest of the household was busy, after all, running itself ragged for the upcoming party. Tullia wouldn’t come looking for hours, or Gaius, or the harried slaves.

It was time.

“Zoe.” Cornelia turned to her maid. “Get out my black stola, please. And make up the bed.” Perhaps a little dusting too . . . Cornelia ran a finger through the dust on the bedside table, frowning. She was certainly not going to commit suicide in an untidy room.

“Gaius, did you confirm Otho’s chamberlain for this evening?” Tullia’s hectoring voice, floating up the stairs. “Gaius, I asked you to invite him a week ago!”

Cornelia reached under the bed for the black basalt urn she’d stored so carefully. Piso’s ashes, which she’d had brought up from the mausoleum yesterday. He’d be with her at the end. Perhaps his shade was waiting even now, smiling. Not much longer, my love, Cornelia thought as her maid tidied the bed. Not much longer. What else was there for her? A near-empress, a beloved wife, turned into an obscure unwanted widow. She might as well put a knife in this endless pain in her chest, and have done.

“Tullia, can you squeeze one more guest in tonight?” Marcella’s husband Lucius’s voice came from the other end of the hall. “Pomponius Ollius, he’s very useful to me—”

“Another guest? Another guest at this late notice? Lucius—”

Why couldn’t Marcella have been the one to be widowed? Cornelia didn’t think her sister would have cared at all—Lucius was such a bombastic drone, he hadn’t even troubled to present his sympathies on Piso’s death now that Cornelia was no longer important. Why not Lucius instead of Piso? Why not Marcella instead of me? Cornelia scrubbed at her eyes a moment and then made an effort to smile at her maid. “A goblet of wine, please, Zoe. And then you’re free to go.”

She waited until Zoe slipped out, then drew out the dagger she’d hidden beneath her cushions. No use involving the slaves, after all. Either they’d run tattling to Tullia, or they wouldn’t and would then get a beating for it once Cornelia was dead.