“You have no idea.”

“You’re worried Rufus will be angry? I think you’re wrong, I think—”

“I think you have no idea who Rufus is,” Philos replies. “And for some reason, you have blinded yourself to what it means to owe Felix this much money.” Amara says nothing, but she can feel fear seep into her skin, damp like the chill night air. “I don’t blame you for choosing to forget your old life,” Philos says. “But I haven’t forgotten it. It was me who had to go to the brothel and collect you every week, only to take you back again. Leaving you in that place was agony, Amara. Rufus left you there for months.” He stops. Again, the only sound she can hear is the splash of the fountain, but this time, it does not soothe her. She cannot speak. “Rufus could have bought you at any point,” Philos continues, “and he chose to wait until the Saturnalia, because it was more enjoyable for him. All that time, Amara. All that time, he left you with Felix who he knew was violent. When he was supposedly in love with you. You would be a fool to feel complacent about your influence over a man like that.”

“But this house! All the money he’s spent moving me in here. The harp lessons, the clothes. Setting me free! That’s not nothing.”

“No, it’s not, I agree. It’s more than I’ve known Rufus give any woman, and perhaps that means he will keep you for years. But in the past, his infatuations have been short-lived. At some point, all this may stop. You don’t want to be in debt if that happens.”

Amara’s eyes have adjusted to the dark, and she can see the outline of the bench. She walks over to it and sits down. “I have to find some way to pay Felix back,” she says. “And I can’t ask Rufus.”

Philos sits beside her, leaving a less obvious gap than usual. “Would Victoria sing at parties for you? The way you and Dido once did? That could earn you a fair amount.”

“But it’s not enough to send one woman on her own. Victoria needs an accompanist. And I can’t do it—Rufus would never agree.”

“Might Drusilla put up the money for a flautist?”