Martha says nothing. She has to share cooking duties with the porter Juventus, and neither of them are especially good at it. Amara normally sends one of them out to buy something from the cook shop on the corner and heat it up again at home. She stretches out her hand for the diaphanous silk that she always wears to entertain Rufus when he visits alone. Martha hands it to her then helps pin the material in place. The dress leaves very little to the imagination. Amara wishes Victoria or Beronice were here instead of Martha. Then she could ask how she looks and get an honest answer.

When she is dressed, Martha restyles her hair. A last flick of kohl around her eyes, and Amara finally makes her way to the dining room to wait for her patron. She never eats in here when she is on her own—it would be far too grand. Martha has lit the oil lamps which rest at the top of tall bronze columns, illuminating the paintings with their flames. Jupiter’s unfortunate mortal lovers sprawl over the walls in various states of undress. Io is being transformed into a cow by the door, while Leda embraces a swan above the couch where Amara is sitting. She never feels at ease in this room. The paintings remind her too much of the brothel, even though the scenes are drawn in finer taste.

The house is silent. Nobody is here but her and the two slaves who belong to her lover. Juventus will still be sitting in his cubby hole by the door, Martha warming the bean stew in the kitchen. The February air is chill, and Amara has draped a shawl around her shoulders to keep herself from shivering. Her heart beats fast with nerves and anticipation. She would love to tuck into some bread, to settle her stomach enough to start drinking the wine. It could be a while before Rufus arrives. She stares through the doorway into the darkening atrium, willing her lover to appear so she can eat.

Her stomach rumbles. That settles it. Better a fat concubine than a revolting one. She takes a piece of bread off the plate, tearing into it. Aside from the sweet bun at Drusilla’s, it is all she has eaten today. The last time Rufus was here, he tried to encircle her waist completely with his hands, but his fingers no longer came close to meeting round the back. He has always held her like that, complimenting her on how slim she is, and she never thought anything of it, didn’t imagine he was actually measuring how fat she was. “At least nobody can say that I’m starving you, little bird.” He had laughed, letting go of her.