She drew a finger down the dagger’s edge, sharpened to a whisper, and laid it on the table beside the black basalt urn. No emotional haste here; nothing messy, nothing squalid; all done properly. There were forms to be observed for suicide, after all.

Cornelia slipped into her black stola, binding her hair tight and glossy about her head. No jewelry; that would be ostentatious. Another Cornelia had become famous long ago for saying that her sons were her jewels—well, this Cornelia might have no sons, but her name would be known too, as a good and loyal wife who had followed her husband into death once honor became impossible. She’d already written out a scroll with instructions for her funeral, as well as good-byes for each of the family. Quite beautiful, really. She’d spent hours on them.

She went to close the shutter and saw Diana splashing through the mud toward the door, her pale head sleek as a seal’s in the rain. Not even taking a litter in this storm, never mind a chaperone. Perhaps my example of wifely duty will inspire her to better behavior in future.

Cornelia poured herself a cup of wine and sat on the edge of the bed, arranging the dagger across her knees. Properly there should be music playing, preferably a harp—she’d always liked the sound of a harp. Surely drifting away into death would be much easier to the sound of good music. But for a harp you had to have a harpist—and Juno’s mercy, what was that racket coming from downstairs? Can’t I get any peace to commit suicide in?

“—holding you personally responsible if they drown, Gaius!” Diana was yelling downstairs.

“Diana, my dear, be reasonable—I’m sure the Reds faction director has any number of places he can send his horses if the stables flood—”

“Yes, on the other side of the city, and hours away now that the Pons Silica is down! I’m just asking if I could put up my Anemoi here a few days if the rains get harder; Father doesn’t have the room—”

Cornelia closed her eyes, draining the wine, but all her peace was shattered. A whole roomful of harpists couldn’t have drowned out Diana’s voice.

More flapping of wet cloaks outside, and feet tramping up the stairs. “By Jove”—Cornelia heard Lucius’s voice outside her door, admiringly—“Is that little Diana down there? I haven’t seen her since she was fourteen. She’s certainly grown up . . .”

“If you’re not four-legged, Lucius,” Marcella’s voice sounded crisply, coming up the stairs, “then Diana isn’t interested.”

Cornelia’s heart knocked. Marcella was supposed to be gone at least another hour. Juno’s mercy, did I take too long?