“Why should it be too late?” he says, seizing on the fact she has not entirely contradicted his version of their encounter. “You’re not denying how it was. What if I hadn’t hurt you so much; what if I’d been kinder to you? You might have seen me differently.”

“But you weren’t kinder.”

Felix sits down heavily on the edge of the desk. “The way you look at me,” he says; “it’s the way I remember looking at my father when I was willing the bastard to die. And don’t tell me I’m like him, because I fucking know I am.”

“You chose to be like him,” she says, devoid of sympathy.

“You’re such a heartless bitch,” he says, and she realizes that his shoulders are shaking with laughter. “No other woman dares say this shit to me. And even when I owned you, when you kept your mouth shut, I could still see you thinking it. It’s why I’ve always liked you.”

If Amara did not know Felix so well, or if she did not love another man, perhaps his flattery might reach her. But she understands how mercurial his moods are, and has seen the way he treated Victoria, with his constant, terrifying switches between tenderness and cruelty. “You can’t expect me to trust you all at once.” She softens her voice and tries to force a smile. “If you manage not to threaten me over the next few months, perhaps I might believe you.”

“That sounds very fucking convenient for you,” Felix retorts, eyes narrowed with distrust. “How am I to know you aren’t stringing me along?”

Amara’s smile is genuine this time. She prefers Felix’s suspicion to all his attempts to charm her. At least she knows it’s real. “You don’t.” She leans closer, feeling the familiar burn of hatred in her heart. “I might be playing you, and you might be playing me. We’ll have to wait and see how the game ends.”

NEMORALIA

30

“Nothing can last for all time:

When the sun has shone brightly it returns to the Ocean;

The moon wanes, which recently was full.

Even so the fierceness of Venus often becomes a puff of wind”

—Pompeii graffiti

The scent of late flowering jasmine from the garden infuses the whole house. Its sweetness takes Amara back to the first days of her courtship with Rufus, except now it is not her patron holding her hand, but Britannica, trying to teach her how to land a more forceful blow. They stand barefoot in the atrium, the mosaic of stars pleasantly cool on a hot August morning.

“For you, important to be quick,” Britannica explains. “Not strong enough for a long fight. Try again.”

Amara lunges, one of the many moves her friend has taught her. Britannica blocks her easily, but she nods in approval. “Better,” she says.