Amara looks across the small fuggy room in the direction of Asellina’s gaze. Fabia is waving a scrawny arm from where she sits at a table in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. “That’s her,” Amara says, nodding. “And yes, I will be buying stew for the three of us. Please can you make sure it is Nicandrus who serves. I should like to see him again.”

The landlady raises her eyebrows, taking in Amara’s fine cloak and her eccentric-looking slave. “As you wish,” she says.

Amara and Britannica weave their way through the tables to the back, avoiding their earlier tormentor, although the man now seems equally keen to ignore them. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Amara says to Fabia as she sits down, her tone slipping to fit the surroundings. “How is this more private than meeting at my place?”

“I can’t have Victoria seeing me,” Fabia replies, unperturbed by the rude greeting. “Don’t trust her not to tell Felix.”

Britannica nods. “Is best,” she says. “He still own her.”

“He does not still own her,” Amara replies, but before she can get into another fruitless argument with Britannica, Nicandrus appears, ducking under the stairwell with a tray of dishes.

“Amara!” he exclaims.

She looks at him, and in that moment, she is back at the Sparrow, back with Dido, Nicandrus hovering beside them, his love for Dido as evident as if he had painted it in red graffiti across his tunic. “Oh,” she says, clamping a hand to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

“Amara,” Nicandrus repeats, setting down the tray. She can see he is similarly affected. It is all she can do not to embrace him.

“It’s so good to see you,” she says. “Can’t you sit with us?”

“I’m needed at the shop,” he replies, looking embarrassed. “Asellina told me I can only stay if you pay her a tip for my time. And even then, not for long.” Nicandrus looks grubbier and skinnier than Amara remembers. She suspects his new boss is less amiable than Zoskales.

“Of course I’ll pay,” she says.

Nicandrus pulls a stool over and sits at the edge of the table, glancing over his shoulder. He looks nervous. Amara pushes two asses toward him for Asellina, which he pockets, and then offers him her stew. He shakes his head. Fabia is already slurping noisily, spoon scraping against the sides of her bowl.

“How are you?” Amara asks.

Nicandrus flicks his eyes back toward the kitchen, a gesture to show he cannot talk freely. “My mistress is generous,” he says. They stare at one another, and the weight of Dido’s unspoken absence grows more painful, the longer she is left unmentioned. “Not that it matters,” he adds. “Nothing has mattered since that night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You loved her too. You understand how special she was.”