The priest chants prayers to purify the child and burns offerings of grain and wine on Julia’s altar. He makes predictions for Rufina’s future based on the direction of the smoke: a happy marriage, numerous children of her own. Amara suspects the patter is the same for every child’s ceremony, no doubt it’s what the priest promised her own parents years ago in Aphidnai.

The gathering is very small: Julia, Livia, Britannica, Drusilla and Primus. Amara cannot help but picture those who are missing. She imagines showing her child to her parents, how her mother would have fussed, how her father would have smiled. She imagines too the happiness of seeing Dido hold her daughter. She tries not to think of Beronice or Victoria.

It is several months since Amara last saw Drusilla, but the presence of another child makes the occasion more relaxed. Primus is busy enjoying Rufina’s presents, especially the horse on wheels, which he clatters back and forth across the tiles. Amara was half-afraid Drusilla would not come, and suspects if the invitation had not been from Julia, she might well have stayed away. Amara is no longer someone it is valuable to know, not to mention she still owes Drusilla money. As it is, Drusilla gives no sign of the cooling of their friendship, but holds Rufina with the ease of a mother, rocking her and smiling.

“Did your parents have eyes this color? So pretty.”

“My father,” Amara lies. “But I suspect hers are just an infant’s blue. No doubt they will darken in time.”

“She has your mouth,” Drusilla says, her own curling in a mischievous smile. “I hope she is spared her father’s nose.”

Julia laughs. “Dear Rufus. He’s no Adonis. We must certainly all pray the child follows her mother.”

Amara smiles, accepting the compliment. It is too early to see what Rufina will look like—her face is still more frog-like than human—but Amara cannot help seeing traces of Philos. The delicacy of the baby’s features, the wide spacing of her blue-gray eyes, giving her a look that is almost feline. Her eyes will turn brown, Amara tells herself. “How is married life treating you?” she asks Drusilla.

“Ampliatus has just bought me a loom,” Drusilla replies, with a smirk. “To impress visitors with my womanly accomplishments. Though he’s yet to wear anything I’ve woven on it. Even his devotion doesn’t extend that far.”

“Are you talking about Papa?” Primus, like all small children has a gift for eavesdropping. “He promised to play knucklebones with me later.”

“And he’s adopted Primus.”