“I think I will take one last look at the garden,” Amara replies, surprised at how calm her voice sounds. She walks toward the light, grateful neither Britannica nor Philos, offers to accompany her.

The heat hits her before she walks into the sunlight. Amara steps out onto the baking paving stones. White, yellow and purple flowers bloom in the herb garden she planted with Philos, and their scent sweetens the air, reminding her of her father’s house. She is sad to leave the plants she has tended so carefully, but they are not the reason for her final visit. Amara looks up at Dido. The mural’s painter, Priscus, did his job faultlessly, and yet, for the first time Amara regrets that she immortalized her friend in such a brutal way. She hears Victoria’s voice in her head, remembers how she turned aside in horror. What have you done?

The sun is scorching, beating down on her head, yet Amara does not move. She gazes at Dido, trying to screen out the scene of death she had painted around her. How little Amara cares, now, for vengeance against Felix. As if it ever mattered. As if it would ever have brought Dido back. Amara places her hand over her stomach, which is just beginning to show the first signs of swelling. She prays to the goddess Diana, in the guise of her friend, asking for protection for her child, for Britannica and for Philos. For the people who matter more to her than freedom, more than her own life.

Amara turns her back on Dido for the last time, the gentle murmur of the fountain and her own footsteps the only sound as she walks into the shade of the atrium. She joins Philos and Britannica at the door. They will both accompany her to Julia’s complex before returning to the house for her belongings. Britannica did not want to risk Felix attacking Amara when their hands were full.

Amara gives Juventus a coin, pressing it into his palm. “Thank you for your service.”

Juventus looks down to check the amount, nods at her in thanks, then stows it beside his belt. There is no love between the pair of them, but in the end, no great animosity either. The porter steps past Amara to perform his last act of service. He draws back the bolts, the metal scraping against the wood, and yanks the door inward, letting in the light and noise of the street. Amara, Britannica and Philos step out onto the pavement. For a moment, Amara is mesmerized by the bustle, her eyes scanning passersby, searching for Felix or Paris. There is no trace of them, but that does not mean she is safe. She thinks of Fabia, lying bleeding on the very stones where she is standing, and shudders.