“I certainly can.” Marcella plucked the dagger away before Cornelia could think to poise it at her wrist or under her breast. “You’re being absurd. What’s this? Another funeral urn? You ordered one for yourself ?” Looking at the engraving. “ ‘Together in death’—Cornelia, how morbid. I wonder if the engraver will take it back? Might as well try, I suppose.”

Cornelia suddenly felt very small and silly, sitting on the edge of the bed in her black dress. As if she were the little sister now, and Marcella the older and wiser. “You don’t understand. I just want to be with my husband again.”

“Well, Piso wanted you to live,” Marcella said shortly. “His last act in life was to shove you toward safety. Why don’t you take his wishes into account?”

“I don’t want to live,” Cornelia said wretchedly. “I just want him.”

“Well, think about that poor centurion who saved you. Are you going to waste all his effort?”

“I don’t care!”

Marcella eyed her a moment. “Come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Cornelia collapsed back on the bed, but Marcella hauled her up by one arm.

“Yes, you are.”

“Where? Where are we supposed to go?”

“A good question. I’d suggest visiting Lollia but you aren’t speaking to her, and anyway she sent me word she’s gone to her grandfather’s house to help feed the huddled refugees from the floods. Which probably means she’s in bed with her Gaul—can you imagine Lollia getting her shoes muddy?” Marcella rummaged for a cloak. “You’d better realize what a sacrifice I’m making. I’ve been trying all day to start my account of Vitellius—the newest Emperor up north, or hadn’t you heard?—and between Tullia’s errands and your ridiculous suicide attempt, I’ve written exactly six words.”

“Vitellius?” Cornelia cried as her sister bundled her into a cloak. “My life is over, and all you can talk about is your wretched political accounts?”

“It’s what I have, Cornelia. At least you’re a grieving widow; there’s stature in that. I’m just an unnecessary sister and an unwanted wife, and I’m at everyone’s beck and call. Including yours, and really I could feel quite resentful about that, but I don’t want to stamp off in a huff and come back to find you dead. Come on.”

She pushed Cornelia along, down the stairs toward the quarrel that was still raging: Diana, standing wet and truculent as Tullia berated her.

“Such language! You should have your mouth washed out—”

Diana stuck her chin out. “Father says worse when he chips a mallet.”

“I don’t care what your father says, you’ll behave like a decent well-raised girl in my house!”

“Then I guess I won’t be staying for your dinner party.” Diana headed for the atrium. “Shame.”

“Wait,” said Marcella. “We’re coming too.”