“Whether I buried her or didn’t bury her, you will never know.” She opens her mouth, about to retaliate, but Felix cuts her off. “Enough now. Give me the money.” Amara stares at him in impotent rage. She thinks of Dido painted on the wall, her hand raised in vengeance. Whatever this man did to her friend’s beloved body, she hopes Dido’s shade curses every remaining day of his life. Felix snaps his fingers, as if to break her from a trance. “Well? Where is it?” Amara stretches over the desk, placing the two purses from Juventus and Philos in front of him. Watching Felix count out the coins, grasping her hard-won fortune in his fingers, makes her feel nauseous. “That’s not enough for a first payment,” Felix says, looking up sharply. “Where’s the rest of the fucking money?”

Amara rises and walks behind the desk toward him. Felix doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise at her uninvited approach. At the very last moment, he stands up. She has never willingly come this close to him before. His eyes do not leave hers, neither of them sure in this moment who is the predator or the prey. Amara reaches into her dress, drawing out the purse that is still warm from lying against her skin, pulls it over her head and drops it onto the desk. Then she leans forwards and kisses Felix on the mouth, eyes open, staring into his. It is not a gesture of tenderness, still less of lust, though her hatred burns hotter than desire.

Felix does not close his eyes or move to touch her, but she can sense his breathing quicken. Fabia’s words come back to her. I always thought it was you he was sweet on. An old woman’s gossip is a faint hope to gamble upon.

Amara exhales as their lips part. “I missed you,” she says.

Before Felix has a chance to reply, she turns and walks swiftly from the room.

FLORALIA

11

“She stood naked on the shore to meet the buyers’ sneers; every part of her body was inspected—and handled.”

—Seneca, Declamations 1.2