“We can tell she has been in a pimp’s house—she is a wheedler.”

—Seneca, Declamations 1.2

Darkness still falls early on the February evenings. Amara retires to bed, not wanting to sit up alone in the empty house. She avoids the garden, with its shadowy imitation of her friend. Dido’s absence feels wrenching tonight. The loss always hits Amara that way, unpredictable in when it will strike. She sits on the bed, hugging her knees, as if she might be able to hold in her grief, prevent it spilling out in an ugly flood, like the guts from her painted stag.

If only Rufus’s visit today had not been so brief. She thinks how much easier she would feel if he had come back again this evening. Perhaps if she saw more of him, the lack of companionship would not affect her so deeply. Amara resolves to practice the harp for hours when it arrives, anything that might succeed in luring him here and fill her days with purpose. And yet even if he visited every night, she knows Rufus could never mean half as much to her as Dido did. Amara can picture her friend, sitting in their old cell. She imagines calling Dido’s name, seeing her turn and smile, the affection in her eyes. The knowledge that she was loved, completely, by another.

You escaped the Wolf Den, Amara tells herself. You are free! Be grateful for what you have. She lies back on the bed, watching the light flicker over the apple blossom from the single oil lamp. She keeps it burning at night to chase away the darkness. Thanks to her generous lover, she can afford to waste the fuel. The air is cool here, the space peaceful. Her door is locked, but even if it weren’t, she knows nobody is going to stumble in and maul her; this is not the brothel. All those nights she schemed for her freedom, desperate to escape to somewhere like this. How is it that now all she can think about is the friends she left behind?

She can imagine them here, how they would laugh together, filling the garden with their voices. She turns over on the bed. It is not only out of guilt that she wants to free Victoria, although the guilt is crushing enough. The thought of her friend in this house gives Amara a sense of joy almost as great as her fear of Felix. She knows Philos understood, even though he tried to persuade her otherwise. It was plain from his face when he mentioned his sister. She stares up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, knowing that he will be lying alone now too, perhaps thinking of his family, just as she is thinking of Victoria. She hopes she did not hurt him by reminding him of his losses. Or maybe that is all he thinks about, every night.