It’s not long before she reaches Drusilla’s house. Pompeii’s most desirable courtesan does not live far away—her road runs parallel to Amara’s. It’s why she knows Rufus will tolerate her making the journey alone. This house is not rented; Drusilla owns it outright, and the beautiful glass workshop that fronts it is also hers. Amara lingers, looking in. The glassware becomes increasingly intricate the further inside you venture. Plain cups and scent bottles stacked on the counter give way to jugs shaped like fishes and an urn dripping in green grapes, a pair of nymphs acting as the vessel’s arms. Amara’s eyes are always drawn to the same place. A shelf carrying small statuettes of the gods. She thinks of the beautiful glass Pallas Athene from her parent’s house, wonders who owns it now.

Amara feels her heart lift as she steps across the threshold into Drusilla’s atrium. The porter inclines his head as she enters—she is always welcome here.

“There you are!” Drusilla calls down, leaning over the indoor balcony, her face dimpled in a smile. Amara beams back. Drusilla is—bar Dido—the most beautiful woman she has ever known. The pale yellow linen tunic she is wearing brings out the warmth of her skin, and her black hair frames her face like a laurel wreath. She could be Hesperia, Amara thinks, goddess of the setting sun.

Amara hurries up the stairs. She always enjoys Drusilla’s company, even more so when they meet without their lovers present, when she knows everything her friend says is genuine. They embrace on the balcony, admiring one another’s outfits, then head to Drusilla’s bedroom where she keeps her harp.

“When is he going to buy you your own?” Drusilla asks, as they sit down together, Amara positioned to play the instrument, Drusilla close beside her to instruct.

“Today, if I let him,” she replies, with a sigh. “But I’m not good enough yet; I don’t want him to hear me.”

“But you could practice every day with your own. You would improve more quickly.”

Amara knows it is true. She is finding the harp harder to master than she anticipated. Every time she plays the lyre for Rufus, however beautifully or skilfully, all he wants to know is when she will entertain him with the harp. There’s no malice in the way he asks; it’s all eagerness like a child, but his insistence makes her feel insecure. She wishes he could enjoy the instrument she already plays. “I’m not sure why he’s so set on this,” she says, patting the strings.

Drusilla strokes her lightly on the back, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “I think it’s an encouraging sign,” she says. “He’s making his mark. Turning you into the perfect concubine to suit his tastes. If he invests enough money in you, he won’t look elsewhere.”