“If you think Felix is bad, you should have known the old master.” Fabia shudders. “That poor little boy saw his father beating his mother, and who knows what else he saw over the years. Felix was even there when she died.” Amara is about to ask what happened when understanding hits. Fabia nods, seeing the look on her face. “I don’t suppose the master meant to kill her, but she was such a frail little thing. He broke her neck.”

In her mind’s eye, Amara can see Felix kneeling on the floor, staring at his father’s desk, and remembers what he said about his mother. She died when I was ten. The horror is too much for her to speak. She stares at the fountain, letting the gentle murmur of the water drown out the pulse in her ears. Pity is the last emotion she owes Felix, but her heart is heavy thinking of all he must have suffered, the pain he must still carry.

“I thought he might have turned out different,” Fabia says, helping herself to the wine when it’s clear Amara is too distracted to pour. “Felix, I mean. His mother was such a sweet girl, and he did dote on her. Trailing around after her everywhere. But his father took him on after that—I don’t know whether it was guilt or what. Made Felix into his own image. Beat any kindness out of the boy, I shouldn’t wonder. And now, he’s doing it all over again with Victoria.”

The mention of her friend startles Amara. “Do you think Felix would ever hurt Victoria? I mean, really hurt her?”

Fabia looks troubled. “I think he hits her more than he used to,” she admits. “He’s been more violent since you left. More unpredictable.”

“Since I left?” Amara asks, surprised. “Why? He got paid a fucking fortune!”

“Well, I don’t know what went on upstairs between the pair of you,” Fabia says, picking up the last piece of bread from the table. “All that time you spent alone with him. Not my business.”

“Nothing went on. I just did his books.”

Fabia raises her eyebrows, unconvinced. “Maybe it was Dido dying then. But I always thought it was you he was sweet on.” She waves the bread at Amara, dropping crumbs. “And all the questions you ask about him! I thought that was why. Some sort of lover’s thing.”

Fabia’s words take Amara back to the red study. She is facing Felix again, his voice in her head. I missed you. Perhaps she has always chosen not to understand what he meant. “There was never anything like that,” she says, dismissing the memory, shutting out the shame. “Perhaps you would like some fruit now? And then you must tell me what Paris is up to.”