Amara does not take Britannica with her to see Felix. She returns home to collect Philos and Juventus, to share out the money between them for the walk over. At the brothel, they wait upstairs in the black-and-white painted room. Amara remembers the comfort she used to feel hearing Philos call for her when she lived here, knowing it signaled her escape for a few hours to be with Rufus. She takes no comfort looking at Philos now. His head is bowed, his arms tense as he grips the bench. Juventus, sitting between them, looks more at home. He has spread himself out so much, Amara has to shift over to avoid his thigh touching hers. He turns to Philos, grinning, and says something in their dialect. From the slight hesitation before Philos replies, and the sudden surliness of Juventus’s expression, Amara guesses they were talking about her.

She cannot name the feeling she has, getting up when Paris calls her, or fully explain the anticipation she feels stepping into the study. Felix is seated at his desk. Amara wills herself to look at him as if he were any other man, to study him, to see his weaknesses and not her own fear. She breathes in, noticing the smell of fresh oil. His hair is slicked back, his face smooth. He must have shaved that morning.

“I want the money first this time,” he says curtly, gesturing at the empty seat. She crosses over, dropping the leather purses on the desk, standing as she watches him count out the coins. He glances up, aware of her looming over him. “Sit.” Amara does as he asks. “That’s fine,” Felix says, shoving the empty purses at her, then scraping the money noisily over the side of the desk into a box. “It’s very trusting of posh boy, letting you come here to see me. I’m surprised he allows it.”

Amara calculates the value of lying, before deciding on the truth. “He doesn’t know.”

“And is Victoria compensating you for taking such a risk?” Felix never bothers to ask about Britannica.

“I believe she will,” Amara replies. “Now that I have other girls to sell alongside her.”

She cannot read the emotion behind Felix’s stare, only sense its intensity. “You’re a pimp now?”

Amara shrugs. “Of course. I know a little about the business. We all have to make money.”

“Perhaps I should up your interest.”

“You can’t. Philos wrote that into the contract.” She knows Felix already knew this, that he was testing how far he could frighten her. He smiles, and Amara catches the scent of his carefully oiled hair. Somehow, she knows then, that he dressed it for her. The thought makes her bold. “You never made the best use of me,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”