“Perhaps.” Amara lays Fabia’s hands on her sunken chest, leaning over to kiss the old woman on the forehead. She did not love Fabia, not the way she loved the other women at the Wolf Den, and yet she cared for her. It hurts, knowing that Fabia’s hard, brutal life ended like this, with yet more suffering. She prays by all the gods that it was not Fabia’s own son who killed her, that instead, Fabia called on Paris for comfort. A sob escapes from her, and Philos lays his hand on her back.

“I will send for her body to be taken outside the town walls in the morning,” he says. “We can have her cremated. Her spirit will be at peace, more than she ever was in life.”

“Thank you.” Amara leans against him, and he slips his arm around her. “We have to leave this house. It will be safer at Julia’s complex. All the guards. It’s much better protected than here.”

“I know.”

They sit together in silence, watching over the dead woman. Oil lamps set on the table beside the bed cast their trembling light on the unmoving body, now a senseless mass of fabric and shadows. Death does not feel like an auspicious omen. But it is the reason why Amara will have to call for Rufus, to ask him, finally, the question she and Philos have discussed so many times. Within days, Philos might be released. Or they might be ripped apart.

40

“Rivers are analogous in one way to slaves’ masters and to judges, because they just do what they want at their own discretion without answering to anyone.”

—Artemidorus, The Interpretation of Dreams

The house with the golden door is at its most beautiful in the warm glow of early September, but now Amara knows she is leaving, the place feels less substantial, as if the building itself were no more real than one of the paintings on its walls.

The message is sent, calling for Rufus. Amara wanders the house, trying to decide where it is best to receive him. Every room holds a difficult memory. In the end, she decides on the garden. Her hands are trembling too much from nerves to play the harp, so instead, she sits, heart pounding, while she waits.

“You called for me.” Amara rises as Rufus strides toward her. There is little warmth in his face, but he looks at her body closely. Perhaps he is hoping to hear she miscarried.

“I have spoken to Julia,” she says, as Rufus sits on the bench beside her. “I thought it better to move as soon as possible. Without any fuss.”