The air smells fresh, the morning’s rainfall still lingering in patches of shade on the pavement. Amara’s spirit feels light as she weaves her way home from Drusilla’s house. The pair of them had shared breakfast together in the atrium, cocooned by the soothing patter of the rain, its splash into the pool sending a gentle spray onto the tiles, while Primus pulled his wooden horse round and round, pretending to be a soldier. Drusilla insisted they celebrate Amara’s success at booking Egnatius with sweet wine, and perhaps it is the wine that has made Amara feel light-headed, warming her from the inside. For the thousandth time, she draws last night’s memory of Philos close to her, imagines he had kissed her, before letting the image go. There is no harm in thinking it, she tells herself. As long as I never do it.

She sees the crowd at the corner of her street before she reaches it. People have gathered around the shrine at the crossroads, and smoke is billowing from the small altar. Amara will have to wait with the rest, she cannot bring bad luck on her household by shoving past a ceremony for the local Lares. She stands at the very edge of the group, not wanting to give any man the chance to grope her under the cover of a crush. Time drags. Neighborhood priests are always slaves and freedmen, and she knows they will be milking their rare moment of public importance. An acrid smell of burning feathers wafts toward her. They must have sacrificed a pigeon.

One of the priests is chanting, and she catches a glimpse of him through the sea of heads. He looks so young and earnest—he reminds her of Menander. The image of her first love cuts through Amara, swifter and more brutal than the sacrificial knife. Menander’s face when the lamp smashed, when she dropped the gift he made for her with such love, at his feet. Pain swells in her chest, forcing her to catch her breath. She wonders what she would feel if Philos ever looked at her like that then realizes, with surprise, that she cannot picture it. Such a betrayal might not even shock him. Amara thinks of Philos’s inscrutable expression whenever Rufus addresses him, the darker currents beneath his stillness, and feels a pull of recognition. He is a slave, she reminds herself, recalling Drusilla’s warning. And I left that gutter.

The crowd starts to disperse. Amara quickens her pace, trying to keep her mind focused on Rufus as she skirts past the lines of fabric. There is no point imagining anyone else. Better make the most of the man she chose, rather than wish for one who would disgrace her.