Dusk has fallen and Amara is already in bed by the time Philos arrives home. She can hear the murmur of his voice below, the scrape and clink of bowls as Britannica serves him the remains of the soup she brought in for them all. It’s likely the only food Philos will have eaten all day. Amara considers getting up to join them both, but her head aches, and her body is unbearably heavy and cumbersome. Instead, she lies in the dark, waiting for the sound of Philos’s footsteps on the stairs, the gentle creak of the door as he tries to slip in without disturbing her. The light of his lamp creeps into the room before him.

“That was a long day.”

He walks over to the bed, setting down the lamp and bending to kiss her. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was only resting.” She watches Philos take off his tunic and lay it over her clothes, already draped on a stool, before he extinguishes the light and climbs beneath the covers. The feel of his skin against hers is comforting. He holds her, resting a hand on her stomach. “I think the baby’s sleeping for once,” she says, knowing he is hoping for the reassurance of movement under his fingers. “I’m sorry you were kept working so long.”

“The election means Rufus is leaving even more for me to do than usual. It won’t last forever.” All the hours Philos works, yet he is only paid for a handful of them. Years of his life, taken.

“Does he ever ask . . . ?”

“No. He’s too busy with his new bride. And that’s safer. The less attention he pays to you, the more likely he is to leave us alone.” Philos curls himself more tightly around her. “You’ve not had any pains or anything, have you? It must be very soon. You’re enormous. Like a dormouse fattened up for the Saturnalia.”

Amara laughs, as he intends her to. “Very flattering, thank you.” She places her hand over his, their fingers interlacing. “The midwife says it’s likely to be soon.” He squeezes her hand, and Amara can sense his fear, the dread she knows he feels at the approaching birth. A dread she shares. “I was thinking,” she says. “Maybe in the house, when we are alone, we could use our real names.”

“No.” His answer is so swift she is taken aback. “It’s too dangerous. Imagine if one of us used the wrong one by mistake? How suspicious that would look.”

“I suppose.” She waits, hoping he will at least ask for her name, or share his own. He doesn’t. “Don’t you want to know what my father called me?”

“Only if you want to share it.”