“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” she replies, tilting her head and widening her eyes, a pose copied from Beronice at the brothel. “That I will always be obedient?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, looking away to hide his smile. “In that case you will have to hope his sympathy for a tale of love and loyalty outweighs his annoyance at not being consulted in advance. It just might, I suppose. As long as Victoria really is a good musician.”

Amara nods. “He will love her singing.”

“And she’s not too . . . coarse?”

“No,” Amara says, suddenly embarrassed, hoping Philos does not see her like that.

“You must have an upper limit in mind when you negotiate with Felix.”

“I have.”

“What is it?”

“You wouldn’t like it. If I tell you, it will put me off. But I promise I can afford it.”

Something hardens in his expression. It looks like resentment. “And you are sure this is how you want to spend your money?”

She is flustered by the coldness of his question. Amara thinks of the money box upstairs. The heavier it gets, the safer she feels. In front of her, the fountain continues its merry patter, the stone Venus lying peacefully at the water’s edge. The air is fresh with the scent of spring’s earliest flowers. All this is hers: the quiet, the safety. Perhaps she is a fool to be risking it, even for Victoria.

She realizes Philos is watching her and feels exposed. “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I do though,” she replies. “If I am ever to live with myself.” He is silent, and it occurs to her that perhaps he is not thinking of her at all, but is afraid for himself. “I can tell Rufus you didn’t know,” she says. “I can tell him I lied to you, that you believed he had given me permission. If that makes it easier.”

Philos frowns. “Why would you do that?”

“Why should you get into trouble? Not very fair, is it? Victoria isn’t your friend.”

Amara can tell she has unsettled him.

“You don’t have to lie for me. I would never ask it of you. And besides . . .” She waits, while he struggles to find the words. “I don’t agree with your decision,” he says, finally. “But I understand it. And you were right yesterday. If I were free, I would do the same. Or at least, I hope I would.” He stands up without looking at her. “Tell me when you want to leave. I will accompany you.”

Amara suspects Philos may have paid her a compliment, but she doesn’t know how to respond.