The five women sit in the dining room, both slave and free, drinking together in honor of the Lemuria. It is a festival that has always disturbed Amara—the night the unburied and the murdered come back to haunt their kin, when the vengeful dead must be appeased. And yet, even on such a dark evening as this, she finds it difficult to feel anything but happy, knowing that soon she will be with Philos. He has been to visit her almost every night since they first lay together, both of them talking endlessly of the risks, yet seeming unable to keep apart.

Amara is not the only one in high spirits. Phoebe and Lais are starting to enjoy themselves, encouraged by Victoria who plies them with wine and compliments, the food long since eaten. For the first time since they came to the house, Amara forces herself to acknowledge the flautists, to imagine how she might have felt if she had met them at the Wolf Den. They are sitting close together on the couch, the lazy curve of Lais’s arm as she rests it on Phoebe’s knee recalling the white flash of limbs from one of Zeus’s lovers on the wall. Amara is not certain she likes Lais. There is a hardness to her face, a ruthlessness. Felix’s voice comes into her head. If you had been me, how welcoming might you have been, if you saw yourself in another?

Amara laughs at a joke, lifting her wine, sipping it slowly to give herself the excuse to keep looking. Phoebe is different. Watchful, but without the coldness. She has been witty this evening, her observations of the men she serves making everyone laugh. At the Wolf Den, Amara suspects they would have been friends. She does not delude herself that this is possible now.

“You’re very quiet. Thinking of your love?”

Victoria’s question catches Amara by surprise. “Well of course,” she says. “I’m always thinking of Rufus.”

“I didn’t mean Rufus,” Victoria replies, causing the color to drain from Amara’s face. Victoria gestures at the paintings surrounding them. “I think we all know that if Jupiter offered himself to you as the king of the gods or as a pile of gold, the gold would win.”

Amara laughs, as much in relief as amusement. Seeing their mistress’s reaction, the flautists laugh too, knowing it is safe to join in. She can feel Britannica shift beside her and does not have to look to know how stony the Briton’s expression will be.

“Mistress is right,” says Lais obsequiously. “Money is important.”

“Did you two train together?” Amara asks. “In Attica?”

Phoebe and Lais look at one another. “No,” Lais replies. “We meet in Baiae. We work there together.”

“Where in Attica are you from, mistress?” Phoebe says to Amara, her tone more polite than curious.

“Aphidnai,” Amara replies.

“You train as a courtesan there?” Lais asks.