“It’s what we have.” Philos reaches out to stroke her face, but Amara does not respond. All she can think of is how badly she has failed him. Even the terrible risk she has taken with her body, her life, has done nothing more than buy them a handful of years. He kisses her on the forehead, neither of them caring who might see. “Any time I have with you is still more happiness than I ever imagined.”

Somewhere beneath the suffocating layers of guilt, Amara senses the sharp edge of her anger. “It’s not enough,” she repeats. “How can you call it happiness? A half-life, constantly hiding in the shadows, everything resting on the goodwill of a man who could destroy us any moment he chooses.”

“My life has never been anything else.” Amara knows it is true. Her belief that she could free Philos and outwit Fate a second time hangs between them, as insubstantial as smoke. He takes her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I tried to warn you.”

Philos is still crouched beside her, and the guilt in his face pains her more than anything else. “You have nothing to be sorry for, nothing.” She grips his fingers more tightly. “We can try again. It might take a few years, but I’m not giving up. I won’t rest until you are free, even if it takes everything I have.”

Amara stands in atrium, choosing the same spot where she once stood with Dido, the pair of them watching the house being assembled. Now it is being taken apart. Most of the furniture has already gone; all the rooms upstairs have been stripped bare, the couches removed from the dining room. Rufus has offered to lend her some furniture to take to Julia’s apartment, but the new place is so much smaller, most of it won’t fit.

Martha has already left, absorbed back into Rufus’s household along with the brass table, the lampstands and the silver mirror. Amara watches Britannica and Philos carry the last of her bags across the atrium, placing them down carefully by the door. When the three of them have left, Juventus will remain at the house, alone, guarding it from thieves, until the new tenant arrives, and he too is called back into Rufus’s service.

Amara looks up. The square of sky lets in the light and warmth of the September sun. From here, the heavens look impossibly far above her. A flock of sparrows fly over, small black arrows set against the vibrant blue, and she thinks of Pliny, when he compared her to birds that cannot sing in captivity. This house has been a haven compared to the brothel, but Amara is starting to believe she will never be free.

“Ready?” It is Britannica, not Philos, who calls to her.