Amara breathes in the scent of thyme and marigold. Both take her back to her childhood. She remembers gathering these herbs for her father, from their small garden in Aphidnai. The leaves were so tempting to crush between her fingers, releasing the sweetness of the thyme, the sharp, peppery tang of the marigold. Her father, Timaios, could have had a servant help him prepare his medicines, but he preferred the company of his daughter. She would strip the thyme carefully from its stems, chopping it finely while he stood beside her and watched, explaining how a cough syrup should be prepared. Sometimes, she struggles to recall the exact cadence of his voice, but not the feeling it gave her. The certainty of being loved. The impossibility that her life could be anything but happy.

“Where do you want the marigolds, shall we plant them here? It will look nice when they flower in summer.”

Philos is squatting beside her, the pair of them planning the garden. He has just cleared a space for the chamomile. The garden has too few beds to plant as many herbs as Amara would like, but she is determined to bring in a bit more variety, to make it more like her father’s house. Rufus was delighted by the idea, urging her to buy the plants when she mentioned it. Any reminder of her respectable past pleases him.

“Yes,” she replies. “We can put the yellows together, good idea.”

She hands Philos the plant, and he starts to dig it in. Above them, the sky is fading from pink to blue, and the air is loud with birdsong. Martha is busy sweeping the atrium, but nobody else is around. Britannica always slips out before dawn to go running by the arena, and Phoebe, Lais and Victoria are still at Drusilla’s after spending the night entertaining her guests. Juventus is out too, keen to leave his dreary role as doorman, even if it’s just running errands at the bakery. Amara could almost pretend she and Philos lived here alone, that their relationship was something different. She remembers how it felt to take his arm when he pulled her in close, and warmth spreads through her body.

“So did your father teach you much about medicine?” Philos is intent on his planting. She has been telling him about her father Timaios, about her childhood.