Phoebe and Lais smirk. Felix would never accept this sort of behavior, Amara thinks, then feels ashamed for making the comparison, even though she did not say it aloud.

“You sit here.” Victoria gestures to the bench with a flourish. She saunters over to the fountain, a flautist on either side. The three of them sway slightly, bending like reeds in the wind. Phoebe and Lais begin to pipe. Amara recognizes the tune. It is one Victoria used to sing at the brothel, one she remembers her singing to Felix the first morning he asked her to stay upstairs, the day after Simo’s murder.

Victoria adds her voice to the piping, and it is a haunting, unearthly sound, the folk lament of a woman abandoned by her lover. She dances, lowering her body almost to the floor, thighs quivering, before rising again. Phoebe and Lais move with her, and Amara finds herself swaying on the bench, remembering what it felt like to perform with Dido, although their routines were tame in comparison to this display. Victoria flings her head back, arm outstretched as if beckoning someone toward her. The gesture is so definite that Amara glances over her shoulder and, to her shock, sees Rufus, standing at the edge of the garden, a rapt expression on his face. She goes cold, realizing how close he came to walking in on an entirely different scene, the knife fighting in the hall. Rufus looks at her and smiles, then slips over to the bench, sitting beside her. They watch together until the song is finished.

“Wonderful!” Rufus exclaims. “These are Drusilla’s girls?” He gestures at the flute players.

“Yes,” Amara replies. “Though I hope it is still alright if they mainly stay here. I did want to help her out, as we also get the use of them. But only if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Rufus replies, resting his hand on her knee. “Nervous little bird, I remember you asking my permission, don’t fret.” Amara can feel any trace of authority she held over Phoebe and Lais evaporating faster than the April rain, as they watch her cringe under her patron’s touch. Rufus is kissing her neck. He has never been perturbed by an audience of slaves. When she used to visit him at his own house, he would start making love to her almost before Philos or Vitalio had had a chance to leave the room. Amara, on the other hand, has no desire to have the other women watch.

“Why don’t we let the girls practice,” she says, standing up.

“Whatever you want, my darling,” he replies, taking her hand and letting her lead him from the garden.

As soon as they reach her private rooms, Amara begs him to wait outside her bedroom door, making the excuse that she wants to change into the transparent silk he likes.