Well, she wouldn’t model herself after just any goddess. Juno, of course, queen of the heavens and always irreproachable—but some of the others were not nearly so well behaved. Plotina eyed the statue of Venus disapprovingly when they made their grand entrance into the temple. Venus: a curly-headed empty little flirt, and her statue looked it. If I were Juno, I’d never put up with any whorish little goddess of love and her antics. Even the gods must keep their houses in order. Plotina’s house was always in order.

The priest raised his hands with a jug of the season’s new wine, intoning a prayer for the harvest to come and thanks for the harvest past. Judging from the flush on his face, he had been appreciating the wine already for some hours. I’ll have a new priest, Plotina decided. Not that anyone was listening to the prayers. Men stood shifting from foot to foot until they could get their hands on the wine; girls giggled behind their hands; matrons fidgeted with their festival wreaths. Plotina’s own husband was trading jokes in a whisper with his slouching guards. “Set an example,” she nudged him, and bowed her head pointedly low as the priest rolled into the final prayer for Venus and Jupiter. Heads lowered hastily across the temple. Including one light-brown head Plotina had spotted the moment she entered the temple.

The girl.

Oh, the agony of it. Was she the one? Was she? Her bloodlines, of course… the mother’s side left a great deal to be desired, but surely Senator Norbanus’s side balanced that. The face: modest and neat-featured. Beauty was not required—indeed, it could even be a deterrent. Flightiness and vanity so often came hand in hand with beauty, and the girl Plotina chose must have poise and dignity above all. Two other candidates had already been discarded on that basis. Plotina watched for some minutes while the priest droned, but the girl stood quietly, not fidgeting like the others of her age or darting looks at the dresses her friends were wearing. Quiet; that was good. She stood respectfully behind her father, eyes lowered—mindful of her elders; excellent. Plotina would be able to mold her, guide her, train her. The dress—deep red silk, and really a girl of eighteen was far too young to be wearing silk, but her father was notoriously indulgent. At least the arms were covered.