Amara is about to object, but then she sees the anguish in Victoria’s face and thinks of the courage it must have taken to leave Felix behind. “Of course,” she says, kissing her on the forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m only glad you are safe now.”

They stay up a little later, plotting the songs Victoria might sing to charm Rufus when she first meets him, the more modest gestures she will need to learn, but Amara can see that Victoria is exhausted. She insists on sending her to bed, escorting her across the atrium. Amara watches from the foot of the stairs as the flame from Victoria’s oil lamp climbs upward, illuminating the hall, chasing over the rafters, before the light disappears, along with her friend, behind the darkness of the closed door. She hopes the room will not be too cold. She had asked Martha to add some extra blankets.

Amara stands alone in the center of her house. She looks up at the dark ceiling. It is a clear night. In the square of deeper black that marks the opening to the sky she can see the stars shining. Outside, the streets are almost silent. The loudest sound now is the murmur of the fountain. Amara wraps her cloak around her shoulders and heads into the garden. The patter of the water guides her. She watches the spray fall, gleaming as it catches the moonlight, before sending ripples of silver across the black pool beneath. Amara stoops down and dips her fingers in the water, then takes them back with a splash, shocked by the cold.

From the corner of her eye, she senses movement. Terror is followed almost as swiftly by relief. Even in the dark, she knows his shape.

“Philos?”

He is instantly still. “I did not mean to disturb you.” She cannot see him clearly, only hear his voice from the shadows.

“There’s no point hiding in a corner,” she says. “This is ridiculous.”

He walks toward the fountain. His face is lit by the moon’s reflection on the water and Amara knows then, looking at him, what she has always known but chosen not to see. He is a more attractive man than Rufus. She takes a step back. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she says, flustered. “I promise I didn’t lie to you about Britannica. I really didn’t plan it.”

Perhaps because it is night, or because her chaotic actions have upended the usual hierarchies, Philos does not simply make his excuses and leave. Instead, he looks at her, the way she might look at Victoria, as an equal. “I realize that,” he says. “I was angry earlier. I’m still angry, but not with you.”

“With who then?”

“With myself. For letting you do it.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Amara says. “I’m not a child, to be saved from sticking my hand in the fire. I know what I’m doing.”