If it were not for Britannica, Amara would feel even more afraid. As they walk side by side, Britannica has her hand on her knife, her eyes constantly roaming their surroundings. But even though the Briton is a formidable fighter, she is alone, and surely no match for a gang of thugs. The house, as they approach, no longer looks like an unassailable fortress of luxury, the way it once did when Amara longed to escape here from the brothel. Instead, she looks at the wooden shutters on Virgula’s store and thinks how easy it would be to start a fire under cover of darkness, to burn everyone in their beds.

“I think we should start keeping the door locked all the time,” Amara says to Juventus, when they slip inside.

“Not now. The master is coming to visit.” Juventus sucks his teeth, looking her body up and down. Amara knows that her stomach is still flat, but Juventus seems mesmerized by her breasts, which are not only sore but swollen from the pregnancy. The doorman opens his mouth, a lascivious expression on his face, but then catches sight of Britannica and closes it again, keeping any further remarks to himself.

Amara fetches her harp and sits in the garden, afflicted by weariness as well as fear. She wonders if Rufus is tired of all this too, whether he finds it hard to be near her, now everything that was genuine between them has died. At least, she has finally become more skillful at playing the instrument he gave her. The melody she chooses flows in time to the murmur of the fountain, the rich notes of the harp as soft as the spray. It soothes even Amara’s nerves.

Rufus’s shadow announces his presence before he steps into the sunlight. They acknowledge one another with a look, but he does not come closer, instead, standing to watch her awhile. She can tell from his face that he is enjoying her playing, and she prolongs the melody as long as possible, plucking the final refrain over and over, until the notes die into silence and only the ripple of the water remains.

He sits beside her. “That was beautiful.” She bends her head, expecting him to kiss her, but he does not. “Philos told me Victoria brought the pimp here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Amara murmurs. “I never wished to embarrass you. She will never set foot here again, I promise.”

“I warned you against her. You should never have bought her.”

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

“A lying whore like that will say anything.” Rufus is looking at her from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge what she knows or believes.