She looks now at her lover’s profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Over his sleeping form, she can see Rufina through the slats of the cot, her tiny mouth pursed in a pout, her lashes lying thick against her cheek. Amara had never imagined it would be possible to feel love like this. Had not believed, after her she lost her parents, that she would ever have a family again. The desire to touch Philos is so overwhelming. She lays her hand gently on his shoulder. He must have been close to waking, because even that slight pressure causes him to stir. He opens his eyes, looking straight into hers, and smiles.

The words Amara had meant to say, the confession she knows she must make, evaporate at the sight of his happiness. She cannot bear to tear her family apart, not yet. Instead, she bends to kiss him, promising herself she will tell him later. They get up quietly together, not wanting to disturb Rufina, who has mercifully started sleeping for hours at a stretch. Philos hands Amara her tunic, lifting her hair out from the back after she slips it on, caressing her shoulder as he arranges the curls. When they are both dressed, Amara wakes their daughter to feed her, trying not to think about how soon she will have to abandon her baby.

“I’m working for Livia today,” Philos says. “Britannica is expecting to spend the day with her fighter. Will you be with Julia, as usual?”

“Yes. She has a guest staying.” Amara pauses, again trying to find the words that might prepare Philos for the revelation which will rip through them, but he bends to kiss her lightly on the lips before she has a chance to say more. She wonders, watching him leave, if he suspects something but does not want to know.

Amara manages to get through a morning with Julia, Livia and Demetrius without showing any sign of the anguish in her heart. She accepts her friends’ congratulations—and Livia’s innuendos—with grace, grateful to have plenty of practice at hiding her feelings. Julia’s excitement compensates for her own frequent lapses into silence, and Amara forces herself to smile until her cheeks ache, while the others casually dismantle her family’s life in Pompeii. Julia suggests Amara travel to Stabiae as soon as a suitable wet nurse has been found for Rufina, which Livia declares cannot take more than a couple of weeks. Amara nods in agreement, the thought of leaving her daughter sitting like a stone in her chest.

A heavy downpour drives them all from the garden, and it is with a sense of dread that Amara finds herself alone with Demetrius in the library, after Livia suggests he might care to hear her read. “After all,” Livia drawls, with a mischievous backward glance, “it worked wonders for the admiral.”