The two women stare at one another, the full ugliness of what Amara has said hanging between them, dark as smoke from the guttering lamps. “I’ve defended you to Felix so many times,” Victoria says. “Whenever he told me how little you cared, how you were just using me to make money. I defended you to Felix even after you asked me to fuck Rufus, because I was so grateful to you, because I loved you. And all that time, you were nothing more than the spoiled little doctor’s daughter, just like Felix always said you were, looking down your fucking nose at me.” Victoria’s anger builds as she speaks, leaving her too distracted to notice the object Britannica places on the table behind her. “The only person you ever thought was good enough for you was Dido, wasn’t it? The pair of you at the brothel, sneering at everyone, thinking you were above us all. And I know, I’ve always known, that you would have exchanged Dido for me in a fucking heartbeat.”

Blood pounds in Amara’s head. She can no longer see Victoria clearly, instead she is back at the Forum, the night of the Saturnalia. Dido is lying wounded at her feet, and there is nothing Amara can do, except watch her die. “It should have been you that night,” she screams. “If you love Felix so much, why didn’t you take the knife that was meant for him? Why was it Dido? She was worth a thousand of you.”

“Perhaps she was.” Victoria flings her arms out in a gesture of defiance. “But look who ended up on the rubbish heap. It wasn’t me, was it?”

The words break like glass in Amara’s heart, shattering the remains of her self-control. She seizes Britannica’s knife from the table, and with a move so swift Victoria has no time to react, she grabs her by the hair and brings the point to Victoria’s throat. “Did you know? Did he tell you what he did to Dido’s body?” Victoria stares at her, eyes wide with shock. “Did he?”

“No,” Victoria gasps.

“Amara.” Britannica lays a hand gently on her arm to avoid startling her into a sudden movement. “Be calm.” Victoria swivels her eyes to look at the woman she has hated so long, who appears, inconceivably, to be coming to her aid.

“I am calm,” Amara says, though her trembling arm betrays her.

“You must kill her now,” Britannica says.

“No!” Victoria cries. “Please!”

Britannica grips Amara’s shoulder holding her steady. “Think of what she may know. What she may tell Felix. About your life, your secrets.” Britannica squeezes her even harder. “Listen to me. I tell Rufus she try to kill you first, that I defend you. We both say I killed her.”