Amara’s heart is beating so hard she cannot move. Rufus owns her, believes she is his to dispose of as much as every other object in the house, including the man holding her hand. Nothing is worth taking this risk, and yet the thought of choosing a lover, of finally acting on her own desires, is intoxicating. She cannot let go. “Every night, when I go to bed, I lock my door,” she whispers, still not looking at Philos. “But this evening, I won’t.” She stands up, feels his fingers slip from hers, and leaves the garden before she has a chance to change her mind.

In her bedroom, Amara moves methodically, opening the linen chest, taking out the contraceptive, undoing the pins in her hair, running her fingers through the curls to loosen them. The waiting is agony, and she does not know which is worse: the idea that Philos will come to her or that he won’t. She stands staring at the door she left ajar, until the shape of it no longer makes sense. Then he is pushing it open.

Philos stands half-inside the doorway, as if unsure, even now, whether he is really invited. “Shall I lock it?”

The practicality of the question surprises her. Amara nods. Philos closes the door behind him, bolting it, then turns back to face her. They stare at one another, and she understands that he is not going to move toward her, that he is even more afraid than she is.

“I’ve often imagined you here,” she says.

“Have you?”

Amara nods. “Have you thought of me . . . ?” She does not finish the sentence, unsure what she wants to ask.

“Every night.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Now I’m here,” he repeats, taking her outstretched hand.

Unlike the night before in the study, they are both clumsy and nervous as they kiss, until their fear kindles into desire. Amara tells herself that they can always stop, that they can turn back, that they have not yet done enough to risk everything. She tells herself this again as they sit down on the bed together, when Philos pushes the dress away from her shoulders, even when she is naked. She tries to remove his tunic, but he gently pushes her hands away.

“I want to see you too.”

There is no mistaking the shame in his eyes. “I don’t want to disgust you.”

“That’s not possible,” she says. “Please.”

Philos pulls the tunic over his head, and Amara immediately understands what he meant. The left-hand side of his chest is not only branded but disfigured. Whoever marked him must have botched the job, or perhaps Philos resisted, as the words are blurred, run over by scar tissue, though she can still make out what it says. Non Subdito. Disobedient.