In that moment, her heart still full of rage at Rufus’s deception, Amara feels nothing but cruelty. “He said he doesn’t give a fuck about you,” she replies, her voice taking on Felix’s characteristic coldness. “Why would he care what happens to a woman he used to sell to all comers as a whore.” The moment she has said it, Amara is back in Felix’s study, back when she saw him humiliate Victoria so viciously. She feels sick with self-loathing. “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I should not have . . .”

Victoria does not answer. She gets up from the bench, walking from the garden. Phoebe and Lais are left behind, looking awkward, unsure what to do. “You can go and get some rest too,” Amara says, not wanting to look at either of them, unable to bear her role as pimp, her hideous resemblance to Felix. She is aware of them hurrying away.

Britannica sniffs loudly. “She deserve it. She is idiot.”

“Don’t,” Amara says. “Please.”

“Felix still own her,” Britannica continues, ignoring her plea.

“Why don’t we practice,” Amara says wearily, changing the subject. “Can you get the knives please?”

The air is hot, and the red silk sticks to her body. Amara is playing the harp Rufus bought her, plucking the same refrains over and over, trying to perfect them. Two glasses of wine wait on the table. Rufus promised to come to her this afternoon, and he is late. She is aware that the last man to touch her in this dress was Philos and feels a shiver of fear, as if Rufus will be able see the imprint of another man’s hands on the fabric. Her breath quickens when she remembers what it felt like to hold Philos, to want a man that much, rather than just tolerate his embraces. Then she remembers Philos’s face when she left, and she is torn between frustration at his deception and remorse for what she said. She plucks the wrong note on the harp, and sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, before starting the refrain again, from the beginning.

“Little bird?”

Rufus is standing in the doorway, a sentimental look on his face. Her body stiffens. Did he smile like that when he dictated the terms of the contract? She can picture him poring over it, his nod of satisfaction to Philos, knowing he had claimed total possession. Amara’s tightening grip on the harp is the only sign of the rage she cannot express. “My darling,” she says, her voice soft. “I have been longing for you all day.”

“Look at you,” Rufus murmurs, joining her on the couch. He eases his hand up her leg, a gesture she remembers from their first evening together. “I can never resist you.”