“No, better than that. Julia passed me some accounts to look over for a friend of hers. So it’s paid work.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Amara exclaims, though her heart sinks at the thought of how much they now owe their landlady and how furious Julia is going to be when she declines Demetrius. She stirs the food, a rabbit broth Britannica bought yesterday, which they have been attempting to stretch over two days. The congealed fat starts to loosen as the liquid heats. Now is the moment she ought to tell Philos about Demetrius, so that they can plan together how to handle the matter. She glances over at the table. He is looking at the tablets again, a frown creasing his forehead. It is impossible not to notice the dark smudges under his eyes, the air of exhaustion that wraps him round like a cloak. A splash of broth lands on her hand from the bubbling pot. Amara sucks in her breath and moves the pot from the heat. Philos does not look over as she spoons it out into a bowl. It smells a little ripe.

She sits opposite him, setting down the dish. “Thank you so much.” He closes the tablets and smiles at her again. “I remember a time you told me it made you uncomfortable when I served you. Now it makes me uncomfortable to eat while you have nothing.”

“I’ve had plenty already today, I promise.” At Amara’s reassurance, he finally picks up the spoon. “I remember that day. It was the afternoon I decided to buy Victoria, after Fabia visited.” Amara thinks of all that has happened since and sighs. “I wish I had listened to you.”

“You loved her. It was easy enough for me to tell you to leave Victoria there. I doubt I would have listened to that advice either.” Amara thinks of other advice Philos has given her, which she also ignored. The time he begged her to leave him. If she had not allowed love to guide her then, what would her life be like now? “You look very melancholy,” he says. “I hope you’re not blaming yourself. You know I don’t.”

Philos is gazing at her, his kind gray eyes filled with nothing but concern. It makes her feel afraid. Not of Julia, or Demetrius, or even Felix, but of herself, and the pain she knows she is capable of inflicting. In her mind’s eye, she is no longer looking at Philos, but at Menander, when she smashed the lamp at his feet. She scrapes back her stool. “I will just check on Rufina,” she says, her voice choked. Philos is left, startled, while she hurries for the stairs.