“He was more concerned about the damage Victoria might do to his own reputation than the fact she had a lover visit the house.”

“Does he still care so much about what I think?” Amara asks in surprise. “Perhaps he’s not planning to get rid of me, after all.”

Philos leans against the door jam, scuffing his heal against the skirting, not looking her in the face. “I don’t think that was the point. Although he did ask me whether you believed Victoria. I suspect his anxiety is more about what a future bride’s family might hear.”

“Oh,” Amara says. “Of course.”

“But I stressed you were blameless, and he believed me. Which is the most important point.” Philos looks at her, with the anxious expression she has come to recognize when he speaks of her relationship with Rufus. “And perhaps, any guilt he feels might make him kinder toward you. Or I hope so.” Amara reaches out to take his hand, and he holds her briefly, kissing the top of her head. “We need to wait until this evening, my love,” he whispers, giving her shoulder a squeeze before moving apart. Amara watches him leave, hears the latch click, then rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes.

Surfacing from sleep, Amara feels like she is buried beneath layers of mud. She can feel the weight of someone’s hand, pushing at her shoulder, and panic jolts through her, her body remembering the brothel. She flails out, hitting nothing but air.

“It’s me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Philos is staring down at her, his face lit by the flicker of the oil lamp, and she is lying in the warmth of her own bed, the room in darkness. Still the panic does not entirely recede. “What happened?”

“Nothing has happened.” Philos strokes her hair from her face. “I was going to leave you to rest, but you’ve been asleep all afternoon.” Amara struggles to sit up, and he helps her. “You look so pale. Are you sick?”

Sick and terrified, Amara thinks. “No.” She moves closer to him, so that they are sitting beside one another, knees touching. “But I need to tell you something.” She cannot bring herself to say the words, so instead, she takes one of his hands and holds it against her stomach, looking at him. He stares back, momentarily puzzled. Then his face is lit by understanding, and she hears his sharp intake of breath.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes so wide they shine white in the lamplight. She nods. “Do you think . . .” He falters. “Do you think it’s mine?”

“I know it is.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Firstly, I lie with you constantly, and with him only occasionally. But mainly . . .” She breaks off, worried about his reaction. “Do you remember in the study, two months ago, when I was frightened because I hadn’t used any contraceptive.”