Dido looks at Amara. Neither of them are sure whether Egnatius means an invitation to share the wine or something else. The air is heavily scented with roses. Their branches have been trained around the walls in trellises, making a pattern of green splashed with color, reminding Amara of her mother’s skill in weaving the threads on her loom. Cornelius’s dining room is open to the garden on two sides, its walls and ceiling painted with the same flowering rose trees which grow in the front courtyard. The garden behind is so vast it is almost a meadow.

They draw closer. The guests’ bright clothes blur and shimmer, seen through a screen of water. A fountain cascades from a giant conch shell held up by three marble nymphs. Amara realizes that the details on their naked bodies are gilded, not unlike the gold she and Dido have smeared on themselves.

Egnatius nods at the fountain. “I told you you were perfect,” he says, raising his eyebrows. They walk past the nymphs and wait at the edge of the gathering. The atmosphere is more relaxed than their last party. There is also a clear imbalance toward men, with only four or five women present. Cornelius is laughing loudly at something his neighor has said, at ease with his role as host. She sees him flick his eyes in their direction, but he waits for another guest to finish his anecdote before acknowledging their presence.

“My dear friends,” he says, raising his voice. “We have Marcus and Quintus to thank for finding us these two lovely musicians.” Amara follows the direction of his finger as he points across the room. She sees their Vinalia lovers reclining on a couch, both looking rather less keen to be associated with the she-wolves now than they did at Zoilus’s house. “Our boys were quite taken by these two songbirds.” Cornelius beckons her and Dido over. “Or would that be nymphs of Flora?”

Egnatius has stepped back, melting into the other attendants serving the party. “Yes,” Amara says, picking up on the host’s playful tone. “We learned our songs from the goddess of spring herself.” She glances back at the fountain. “In our former life as dryads.”

“So many nymphs these days have a taste for gold,” Cornelius replies. “Will you earn yours this evening?”

Both women bow. “Flora is a goddess of pure pleasure,” Amara replies, striking her lyre with the plectrum. “And that is all we intend to give.”