“Fabia told me Felix is becoming more violent with Victoria. He takes her upstairs for a while and then sells her again. Exactly as his father did to his mother.” She holds up a pair of earrings Rufus gave her, squinting at them, trying to guess their worth. “Felix saw his father kill his mother—did you know that?” She glances back at Philos. “Imagine what he might be capable of, what he might do.”

Philos sits down on a chest without permission, an unthinkable liberty he would never take with Rufus. He looks completely calm in the face of her anxiety. It is infuriating. “I’m sorry to hear that about Victoria,” he says. “But it doesn’t mean Felix is going to kill her. He is not his father.”

“He’s a fucking monster!” Amara shouts. Her hands are shaking too badly to continue counting the money. She puts one hand to her throat, remembering the pressure of Felix’s fingers. “You don’t know what it’s like to be owned by someone like that.” As soon as she has said the words, Amara realizes that Philos does, in fact, know exactly what it’s like. All the years of abuse he endured when his owner was not Rufus, but Rufus’s grandfather, Terentius.

“Felix does not own you now,” Philos replies. He is looking at her with such sadness it makes her want to weep. “You are safe from him. You are safe here. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

“But he is hurting Victoria.”

Philos does not contradict her. “That’s not your fault. Or your responsibility.”

His acknowledgment of Victoria’s distress does nothing to allay her own. Amara turns away, trying to calm herself. She needs to convince Philos, not cry over him. “I owe my life to Victoria,” she says, her voice colder. “I would be dead without her. It’s a blood debt. I have no choice.”

“No,” he says, already understanding. “You can’t do this.”

“Why not? I told Rufus I wanted to buy some musicians. He didn’t say no. Victoria is a great singer!”

“You said flautists.”

“You were listening?”

“I’m not a doorpost,” Philos says, with irritation. “I have ears, and you were talking.”

“Rufus never pays that much attention to me,” Amara replies. “He won’t remember. And why should he care anyway? What difference does it make to him whether it’s a singer or a flautist?” Philos frowns, and she remembers Drusilla’s warning about where his loyalty might lie. “I meant no disrespect—” she stammers.

“I know that,” he says, cutting her off with a look of distaste at the fawning tone to her voice. “I’m not going to report you; I’m not your jailer.”

“So you agree he might not mind?”