“We’ll be back in town soon.” Philos glances at her. “Maybe walk on my other side.” He holds out his arm to shepherd her over, brushing her lightly on the shoulder as she passes. It looks like an innocent mistake, but Amara knows it is deliberate. Her heart beats faster. She thinks of the evening, when they will finally be able to touch one another and speak freely. “Rufus will be joining you later than planned,” Philos says. “He is bringing a friend to dinner. I expect he intends to stay the night.”

“Oh,” Amara says, unable to hide her disappointment. “Did he say which friend?”

“It’s a surprise. He didn’t even want to tell me, though he did say you would be pleased. I know it cannot be Quintus and Drusilla—she has Phoebe and Lais with her this evening.” They have reached the street, and Amara will need to walk ahead of him. “It’s only one night,” Philos murmurs, his voice so low she can barely hear. Amara steals a glance at him, but he does not return it.

At the dressing table, Martha pulls at Amara’s hair, her fingers unkind. Amara wonders how her maid might react if she learned her brothel-raised mistress is cheating the master. Philos has assured her that neither Martha nor Juventus suspect anything, and Amara is obliged to believe him. Her lover shifts between the worlds of slave and free, wearing a different mask for every role. His conversations in dialect with the porter are as unknowable to Amara as is the precise nature of the work he does for Rufus in the family business.

An especially hard twist with the comb makes Amara wince. “Careful, please.”

“Sorry, mistress,” Martha says, not sounding remotely contrite but easing off on the styling.

Amara sighs and closes her eyes. She prefers Martha’s hands, however rough, to entertaining Rufus. Anticipation makes her nauseous. It is impossible to be intimate with Philos, to try and allow herself to feel, only to be confronted by Rufus and turn her body back to stone. Perhaps it would be different if her patron simply took what he wanted, without needing her to love him too. Her bedroom is now a place she associates so completely with Philos that Rufus’s presence there feels like an obscenity. And yet, Rufus is the one who owns the house, owns her, owns her lover, and grants her every privilege she has. Even her relationship with Philos depends on his continued affection.

Martha has finished with her hair, and Amara dismisses her to finish preparing the dinner. Amara changes her earrings, and once she is satisfied with her appearance, she sits on the couch, reaching for the harp to squeeze in some more practice in case Rufus demands to hear her play.

“Rufus is coming?” It is Britannica, standing in the doorway.