Fabia’s visits always last hours. Eventually, Amara is forced to invent an excuse for her to leave, claiming Rufus is due for an assignation. She lets Philos escort the old woman to the door, keeping up the flimsy pretense that these meetings are purely out of charity, not friendship. She can hear Fabia exclaiming as she crosses the atrium, trying to eke out her stay a few moments longer, and the murmur of Philos’s indulgent replies. He is always unfailingly polite to Fabia, calling her mistress, as if she were a respectable woman. Fabia titters in delight whenever he uses the term, as if forgetting she is no longer a pretty, young flirt.

Amara is left alone with Dido. She looks at her friend, but the portrait’s gaze is directed instead at the dying stag. Dido will never meet her eyes again, not even as a shade. Before she was freed, Amara had promised to do everything in her power to buy Dido, to bring her to live in this house. Now she is dead. But Victoria is still alive.

“Your old friends doing well, are they?” Philos is cheerful as he wanders back in to clear up the lunch. Fabia always seems to amuse him. Amara instinctively gets up to help, but he recoils when her hands touch his.

“Sorry,” she says, sitting back down again. “I don’t like . . .” She trails off. Amara finds it hard to explain why she finds it difficult to watch Philos serve her.

“If it makes you feel better, I wait on you because that is what Rufus has commanded,” Philos says, stacking the bowls. His face is impassive, impossible for her to read. “Just as you live here at his pleasure. Nothing for either of us to question. Or feel bad about.”

Everything he has said is true, but Amara does not find it comforting. “You must wonder why I still see Fabia.”

“Not at all,” Philos says, looking up at her. His expression is kinder this time. “Why shouldn’t you help an old woman? Not her fault she’s hungry. Most natural thing in the world, friendship.”

“That’s true,” Amara says, his words adding weight to the idea forming in her mind. She gestures impatiently at the tray. “Can you leave that? There’s a purchase I need to discuss with you.”

“Now?” Philos is startled by her change in mood.

“Yes, I need your advice.” Amara stands up again, agitated. Having decided what needs to be done, her sense of urgency is overwhelming. “Right away.” She hurries upstairs to her private study, and he follows.

Philos stands in the doorway, looking on, as Amara drags her money box out of the drawer. She flings open the lid, rifling through it, counting up the total even though she already knows it by heart.

“What is this?” His voice is low, and now they are alone, his manner is more familiar. “What are you doing?”