They sit together in the garden, Victoria placed a little at the edge of the gathering. But if Drusilla intends to snub Victoria by this arrangement, it only makes her voluptuous figure more eye-catching, especially when she starts to sway to the music. The only one to disgrace herself is Amara. The song is a hymn to Sappho that she has practiced with Drusilla many times before, but this afternoon, her fingers seem to have been numbed by nerves, and she stumbles over the notes. After struggling on for an hour, Drusilla holds up her hand to call a halt. “You are not ready,” she says.

“I practiced all yesterday afternoon,” Amara protests.

“It’s not good enough. Better if you use the lyre tonight. You are a master of that instrument. Any man would be delighted to hear you play.”

“But Rufus bought me the harp specially,” Amara says, clutching it. “He sent it to me to play this evening! He will be so disappointed.”

“He will be more disappointed if you show him up with a bad performance,” Drusilla replies.

“What’s all this fuss with the harp, anyway?” Victoria asks, hands on hips like a street seller. “She plays the lyre. Why does he even care? Men are such fucking idiots.”

Drusilla stares into the middle distance as if Victoria has not spoken, but Amara sees her mouth tighten with displeasure. “The lyre please,” she says again. “I cannot perform with you unless you agree to use it.”

“Of course.” Amara stands up. She avoids Victoria’s eye as she hurries to her rooms to switch over the instruments. The lyre fits into her arms like a part of herself as she lifts it from the floor, the curve of it familiar against her hip. She isn’t sure which emotion is stronger when she carries it back to the garden, fear or relief.

In the lamplight, the dining room looks like a scene from the ancient myths, flames burnishing the skin of Jupiter’s painted lovers, the flowers lending an air of modesty to their nakedness. The small space is filled with men’s laughter. The real women are draped over the three couches, echoing the languid postures of the painted ones, and although she does not like to eat too freely in front of Rufus, wine is taking the edge off Amara’s nerves.