Amara lays aside the harp and kisses him with a false show of delight, unable now to imagine how indulging Rufus ever felt close to love. He is nearly on top of her, but she is skilled at maneuvering a customer, knows how to make a switch in position look like an excess of passion. In truth, she cannot bear to lie beneath him, wanting to escape his weight, not to have his face so close to hers.

When Rufus has finished, they recline together, drinking the wine, and he recounts all his triumphs from the night before. Amara exclaims encouragingly, her lines of devotion well-rehearsed. It is only when he asks her about the carriage, wanting to know how she felt, whether she was excited to see how much he loves her, that she falters. “You have done so much for me,” she says, knowing it is true. “I don’t think I will ever know how to thank you.”

Rufus smiles, pleased to see her emotional, mistaking it for humility. “Your love is enough thanks,” he says, lifting her hand to his lips.

Night has fallen, but Amara cannot sleep. She sits in the garden. Dido is a faint outline, the moon illuminating her in her guise as Diana. The hairs on Amara’s arms stand up in the cold, but she cannot bring herself to move inside yet. The fountain murmurs, louder now it does not have to compete with the hubbub of the day. She can still picture the moment she saw Philos here, at night, when she began to understand what she felt for him. She tells herself that she has waited long enough, that she was a fool to imagine Philos would come looking for her after Rufus left, but as she shifts, getting ready to rise, she becomes aware she is not alone.

“Why don’t you join me,” she says, her voice so quiet she is not even sure he will hear.

Philos sits beside her. Her hand is resting on the bench, and she feels the warmth of his fingers brush hers, a gesture so slight, she understands he is giving her the choice to ignore it. Amara remembers how it felt when she belonged to Felix, all the times she gambled her life on the faintest hope of freedom, the exhilaration and the terror, and knows she will choose the same again. She touches Philos’s hand, and he responds, their fingers interlacing.