Philos is next door, Amara thinks, and the knowledge gives her a savage sense of satisfaction. She suspects Felix would be no less furious than Rufus at her deception, at the possibility that she is laughing at his efforts to charm her. The euphoria of love and risk, which she lives with daily, is starting to lend a recklessness to everything she does. And yet, it is not only her affair making her bold. This is an old, familiar feeling: the intoxication of holding the master’s attention, the possibility of manipulating him. It’s unwise to tell Felix too much, she knows this, yet she cannot resist leading him on a little further. “Patrons don’t last forever,” she says.

“Unless they marry you,” Felix replies, and Amara knows then, from the look on his face, that she has miscalculated. “Or isn’t posh boy romantic?”

She tries to shrug him off. “You know men of his class don’t marry whores.”

Felix smiles, and the switch in power between them is so sudden Amara’s stomach lurches like a cart hitting a rock on the road. “You want to do business with me when posh boy leaves. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

Felix lifts the purse again, contemplating it. “You certainly have a talent for making money. I won’t deny it. But doing business with a woman is senseless.” He drops the coins which land on his desk with a clink. “What happens when you get married? All my investment in you, any cut you give me, gone.” He snaps his fingers. “You belong to someone else, and so do your earnings.”

The effort Felix has made with his appearance, the smell of the pomade, no longer feels like a joke. Instead, it adds to her unease. “Maybe I’m not interested in marriage.”

“So my profit relies on the prospect of you remaining a cold-hearted bitch for the rest of your life?”

“It’s been good enough for you.”

“The only way to own a freedwoman’s assets is to marry her. Is that what you’re offering me?”

On the red wall behind him, she can see the black plinths, the bulls’ skulls at the top, the empty eye sockets. It was madness to imagine she could ever claim this space from him. “No,” she says, standing up.

Felix is too fast. He crosses in front of her, blocking her way to the door. “Do you think I’m a fool? That I’m one of your fucking customers you can string along with hints?” His face is contorted with anger. Amara is desperate to get away from him and tries to push past. “Don’t you dare walk away from me.” He seizes her wrist.

“Philos and Juventus are next door,” she says, raising her voice to mask her fear. “They will hear me if I call.”