“Oh, so you girls have been plotting, have you?” Rufus laughs. “Well, let me think about it. Perhaps I will buy them for you once you can play the harp for me.” Philos arrives with a tray laden with sweet wine, bread and the crumbling white cheese Martha bought in specially yesterday. He sets it down on the small table on Amara’s side of the bench. She tries to catch his eye to thank him, but he is not looking at her. Philos leaves as silently as he arrived. “What did Drusilla say at your lesson yesterday?” Rufus continues, not acknowledging his slave. He has not noticed Dido painted on the wall either. “Are you getting better at it?”

“She thinks it would help if I had my own instrument at home, to practice,” Amara says, handing Rufus a glass of wine.

“But that’s what I’ve been saying all along!” he exclaims, rolling his eyes. He takes a sip.

“I worry you might not like my playing yet,” Amara says. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Nervous little bird,” Rufus says, leaning over to kiss her again. “How could I do anything but adore you?” Amara smiles at him, inwardly wincing at the nickname. Rufus started calling her this after he freed her, a joke based on a letter from Pliny comparing her to a bird that cannot sing in captivity. Her patron sets down his wine, pulling her closer. “I don’t have much time this morning, my love,” he murmurs into her hair, his hands sliding into the folds of her dress.

“Just give me a moment,” Amara replies, thinking of all the jasmine she did not sprinkle on her body earlier, and worse, about the contraceptive she never likes Rufus to see her use.

“Don’t be long,” he replies, letting go. Amara walks from the atrium, giving him the deliberate backward glance that Victoria taught her, the one she knows he cannot resist. His eyes meet hers, and in that moment, she feels invincible. It is impossible to imagine a time this man will not desire her.

After Rufus has left, she spends some moments alone at her dressing table. Her hands shake slightly as she picks up the bottle to reapply the kohl. She puts it down again. It had been an act of overconfidence to try that particular move to impress Rufus, the one Felix always demanded, the one fraught with dark memories. She is fortunate her lover had been too caught up in pleasure to notice her falter. At least her gamble served its purpose.

Amara picks up the kohl again, and this time, her hands are steadier. She props up the mirror for herself, not calling for Martha, and draws the dark lines around her eyes. Her reflection stares back, braver than she feels inside.