“I’m not too tired!” Amara says, sounding more eager than she intends. “I’m never too tired for you.”

“That’s a relief.” Philos sits down beside her, looking amused now, rather than nervous.

“No need to be so smug.” Amara tries not to laugh, any lingering fear of the dead dispelled by his presence. She pulls off her robe, impatience preventing her from making a performance of it, and pushes him back on the bed.

It is not difficult to give Philos pleasure. Amara is always delighted by how easily she can make him lose his self-control, even if she suspects his years of loneliness might play as much a part as her skill. But after their first few frantic nights together, he is starting to resist, wanting to give her pleasure in return. This is less easy to manage. Amara would never have survived the brothel if she had not learned to sever herself from her body, and now, when she wants to feel everything, the habit is hard to unlearn. She tries to tell him that it is enough for her to enjoy his enjoyment, but he is not satisfied, refusing to kiss her until she tells him something she likes. Amara is tempted to lie, to make the moment pass, but he is gazing at her so earnestly she surprises herself with the truth: that she needs him to look in her eyes. Almost instantly, she regrets it, certain he will understand the reason why. But Philos only kisses her and moves his body to make it easier to do what she’s asked.

“I was worried you might think it bad luck on the Lemuria,” he says, afterward. His voice is a whisper—everything they do has to be in near silence—and he is lying facing her, their noses almost touching. It has become a familiar posture. The easiest way to hear and hold one another.

“You’re not allowed to marry on the Lemuria; there’s no rule about making love,” she whispers back. “Although if we had the chance to marry, I’d take the risk, even on the unluckiest night of the year.” Philos smiles but only squeezes her shoulder in answer, and Amara feels mortified at exposing her infatuation. She sounds worse than Beronice. All her experience as a prostitute, all the false protestations she’s made, yet with this man, she seems incapable of keeping her feelings to herself. She turns away from him to look at the ceiling, at the ripple of light and shadow from the oil lamp.

“I didn’t mean to be cold,” Philos says, and she can feel the back of his fingers brush her cheek. “I just don’t think it will make us happier wanting things we can’t have.”

“That sounds very defeatist.”