It is not the most pleasant evening Amara has spent at Drusilla’s house. Tension clings to everything like the transparent silk on her skin. The rivalry between Quintus and Lucius over Drusilla, although unspoken, still dominates, dampening the women’s attempts to lighten the atmosphere. All the men drink too much. The only relief for Amara is watching Phoebe and Lais. Both are admirably professional: Lais does not vie with Victoria for Marcus’s attention but instead fetches her flute to play to them all, while Phoebe gives no sign of being disconcerted by Lucius’s bad temper. The flautists were a good investment, she decides.

“I think we should head home, little bird,” Rufus says, rising from the couch, after yet another barbed exchange between Lucius and Quintus, “delightful though the gathering has been.” He winks at her, and she smiles, enjoying his private joke.

“I will retire too.” Drusilla stands at the same time as Amara.

“Let me join you,” Quintus slurs, trying to push his hand inside her tunic.

Drusilla sidesteps him. “You made your choice for this evening. I’m sleeping alone.”

“How do I know you won’t have him upstairs?” Quintus gestures at Lucius, his voice rising. “I saw you dabbling your fingers in the wine, scrawling little signs on the table. How do I know that wasn’t some secret signal?”

“You are ridiculous.” Drusilla’s voice is ice.

“Just let me come upstairs, my darling,” Quintus’s tone is fawning, and he reaches out, trying to embrace her. “You know I don’t want anyone else.”

“You told me you wanted a whore this evening,” Drusilla replies. “Here are some whores—go fuck one of them.”

“If I find out you had him in your bed, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Drusilla does not even have to shout to silence him. She turns to Lucius who is sprawled on the couch with Phoebe, enjoying the row. His smile shrivels at Drusilla’s look of contempt. She stands very still, even more beautiful in the coldness of her anger compared to the louche scene surrounding her. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.” She sweeps from the room.

When she has left, Marcus bursts out laughing. “That’s you two told.” He guffaws, pulling Victoria against him.

“You do make a scene,” Rufus mutters, clearly irritated, though it’s not clear which of his friends he is addressing.

“We can’t all use our father’s money to set up some jumped-up little Greek tart like a fucking wife,” Quintus snarls, still beside himself with anger at his lover’s snub. “Why don’t you go home and get her to weave some tunics for you?”