“I didn’t know there would be so many other performers,” Dido whispers.

Amara’s own fingers are sticky with paste. They had tried to decorate the lyre, and although it now shines golden, so do the palms of her hands. “It’s as well we look different,” she says, trying to convince herself as much as Dido. “We couldn’t all be naked.”

“A few more flowers and you will be perfect.” It is a deep boom of a voice. Egnatius, the self-declared master of Cornelius’s entertainments. Amara is startled by his interruption; she didn’t notice his return, but there is no sign he took their mutterings amiss. Instead, he is now fussing with Dido’s hair, weaving the white roses he went to fetch between her curls. She has never seen a man wear so much makeup. His eyes are lined with kohl and the thick powder on his cheeks is cracked like badly dried plaster. The grooves cut deeper every time he smiles, which is often. “Such a pretty little thing,” he says, standing back to admire Dido. “I never saw a face more exquisite.” He turns to Amara, teasing his remaining flowers into her hair. “Except yours, of course, darling,” he drawls, raising his eyebrows. She finds herself laughing. Egnatius purses his lips, pleased to have amused her. He is standing so close, his breath is warm on her cheek and the smell of acacia pomade in his hair is almost overpowering. He tweaks the last rose behind her ear. “Now!” He claps his hands together in a theatrical gesture of excitement. “What will you two nymphs be singing for us this evening?”

“Several verses from Sappho,” Amara says. “A medley of songs about Flora and the spring and the tale of Crocus and Smilax.”

Egnatius nods. “Very pretty. Perhaps you could sing me a line or two, so I know where to place you?”

Amara begins to play Salvius’s Oscan song, which she and Dido have set to a well-known hymn to Flora. The mime actresses break off their own rehearsal out of curiosity, and Amara is gratified to see their expressions change from amusement to grudging recognition. She couldn’t ask for a higher compliment.

“Delightful!” Egnatius beams. “Your voices are as sweet as flowers falling from the mouth of Flora herself! Have you read any Ovid? Oh, you must, you must,” he declares when they both shake their heads. “I will write you out some of Cornelius’s favorite verses for next time.”

Amara wishes she had known Cornelius had a favorite poet before this evening but is touched by Egnatius’s generosity. “Thank you,” she says.

“You are too kind,” Dido adds, laying her hand on his arm. Her sincerity is unmistakably genuine.