“There was a time you never asked for gifts.” Rufus takes back his hand, looking at her with distaste. “When we first met, you never asked for anything—you were grateful just to love me. Or so it seemed.”

“Please.” It is impossible to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice. “Please do this for me.”

“You’re so transparent. Do you think I don’t know what this is about?” He stands up, and Amara stares, terror expanding in her chest. “You think you can keep Philos a few years and then sell the boy on, don’t you? That because he’s so valuable to my business, he must be worth something. Well, sorry to ruin your little scheme, but he’s branded. You’d hardly get any money for him at all.”

Panic overwhelms Amara. She grasps at Rufus, pulling at his arm. “I don’t want to sell him! Please, if that’s what you think, I’ll buy him from you or sign a contract. I just want him to look after the child. Please. I’m begging you. Please.”

“I’ve said you can borrow him!” Rufus shouts. “And that’s an end to it, don’t try my patience.” Amara’s legs feel unsteady, and she sits back down. The garden blurs, a roaring in her head drowning out the thud of her heartbeat. She grasps the bench, leaning over to stop herself from blacking out. “I understand your condition, the funny notions and moods it can give a woman.” Rufus’s voice is gentler. “I don’t want to argue, little bird.” She feels him sit beside her again. He starts to stroke her back, making her stiffen. “Let’s not spoil the last days we have together.” Amara knows that she needs to control herself, to force herself to sit up and smile, to thank him for his generosity. But she cannot move or speak. “Fine then.” She hears Rufus pause after he gets up, knows he is standing beside her, but she keeps her eyes screwed shut, her head between her hands. His footsteps slap, hard and impatient, as he leaves the garden.

The fountain continues its gentle murmur long after Rufus has left the house. Amara remains where he left her. Then she feels the stir in the air brought by another’s approach, the warmth of a hand on her shoulder, and knows Philos is before her. She feels him crouch down. If she looks up, his face will be level with hers.

“Amara.” She does not answer. “I heard how hard you tried.” Philos lifts her chin with his fingers. The resignation on his face is like the cold, flat of a blade against her heart. “Not everything is lost—we may still have years together. More than many are ever granted.”

It is an effort to drag her voice through her throat. “It’s not enough.”