“Felix has set him on me as a spy. My own son. I pray you never know what that feels like.”

Amara ignores the plea for sympathy. “Tell me what’s happened since Victoria came back.”

Fabia starts to spoon in her stew, but without the usual enthusiasm. “He took her to his new bar to celebrate. He’s showing her off everywhere, claiming her as his freedwoman and wife.” Fabia’s mouth twists, as if she has tasted something bitter. “You blame me. But you think Beronice didn’t know? She didn’t warn you either.” Pain lodges in Amara’s chest, as indigestible as the dry bread Britannica has been pressing on her. There was a time she trusted Victoria and Beronice as her own sisters. “It won’t last,” Fabia mutters, wiping stew from her chin. “He always turns on her eventually. I’m sure he only managed to restrain himself all these months because you would have seen the bruises.”

Amara thinks of the smell of pomade on Felix’s skin, his slicked-back hair, and worse, the greed in his eyes when he took hold of her. “Victoria is not the one he wants,” she says. “Though I wish she were.”

“He says he will destroy you.” Fabia bows her head, not meeting Amara’s eye. “And he means it.”

“I know.”

“I see him dead first.” It is the first time Britannica has spoken since Fabia arrived.

“Do you know how many men have tried to kill him?” Fabia hisses. “What makes you think you can manage it?”

“Fabia, please,” Amara says, taking the old woman’s hand. “I don’t blame you for staying silent before. But I beg you to tell me everything you know now.”

“He has people watching your house.” Fabia’s voice is so low Amara can barely hear.

“He means to attack me? Or attack the house?”

“Victoria knows all your bookings, doesn’t she? She’s been bragging about it to him for months.”

“He means to attack the flautists?”

“I can’t be sure.” Fabia takes her hand back, her lips pursed. “It’s not as if he shares his plans with me. But that’s how he normally works. Striking at a rival’s earnings first.”

“Thank you.”

Fabia shrugs. “If he has had me followed here, I am already dead. So I might as well tell you.” She wipes the last scrap of bread around the bowl then stands to leave. Her expression, when she looks at Amara, is unforgiving. “You should have said yes to him.”

Amara’s neighborhood feels different on the walk back. She does not expect to see anyone she recognizes. That’s not how Felix works. He has a large enough network to draw on—she knows whoever is spying will not be familiar to her. Or else, they might be all too familiar: perhaps one of the shopkeepers she nods to each day, paid or threatened to give information.