Amara feels a flicker of anxiety. It’s a constant shadow, the worry of losing her patron’s interest. “Let’s try Sappho again,” she says. “I nearly had it last time.”

They play for an hour or more. Amara is a dedicated pupil, never complaining when Drusilla gets her to practice the same chords over and over. For her part, Drusilla is an exacting teacher, not only passing on her musical knowledge, but also her advice on how Amara should hold herself to look as attractive as possible when she plays.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Drusilla says, running her hand along Amara’s arm. “You are getting tense. I was serious earlier. Let Rufus buy you your own instrument. You will learn faster.”

Amara follows Drusilla to the couch. The maid, Thalia, has left them some wine and pastries. “All this effort,” Amara remarks, helping herself to a bun, telling herself she will eat less later. “Can you imagine Rufus and Quintus spending their afternoons deciding how to please us?”

“Not Quintus, certainly,” Drusilla says with a frown.

“But he adores you.”

Drusilla shakes her head. “A man like Quintus will inevitably want the excitement of something new, sooner or later. And I worry it might be sooner.” She toys with her wine glass. It is blue, no doubt bought from the shop she rents out, the red of the wine shining purple through the glaze. “I’m not in love with him, as you know, but a new man is always a disruption. I’m used to Quintus now.”

Amara is not entirely sure she believes Drusilla when she says she does not love Quintus. It’s hard to dedicate so much attention to pleasing a man without ending up feeling some affection for him. “I keep having to remind myself to ration out the tricks I learned at the brothel,” Amara says, raising an eyebrow. “Leave Rufus a few surprises.”

Drusilla snorts. “That one maneuver you told me about! I think even Quintus was shocked when I tried it.”

They both laugh. Amara settles back onto the cushions, enjoying the freedom of friendship, the license to say what she likes. Her apprenticeship at the brothel was brutal—everything Felix forced her to learn coming at the highest possible cost—but now that she has escaped, it can almost seem worth the pain. “Priscus finished the painting today,” she says.

“How do you think Rufus will react? When he realizes it’s Dido?”

“Philos says he won’t even notice,” Amara shrugs. “She was just a slave to him.”

“You discuss Rufus with Philos?” Drusilla’s voice is sharp. “Is that wise?”

“Philos was my friend before, when we were both . . .” Amara hesitates, not wanting to say the word. “When we were both enslaved.”

“But now you are not, and he still is. Philos belongs to your lover. Be careful what you say. He might feel bound to repeat it to his master.”