She and Dido slowly walk over to where their former lovers are reclining, while Amara plays the first notes of Salvius’s spring tune. Amara sits on the edge of the couch, smiling coyly at the two men. They both laugh, less nervous now. Quintus rests one hand on her knee, pinching the silk between his fingers. Her closest neighbors are all listening, but she notices that some across the room are still chatting. She begins to play in earnest, and Dido takes up the melody. Her voice rings out clear and sweet, silencing more of the company.

They arranged the Oscan song almost solely for Dido’s voice. She weaves through the couches as she sings, plucking flowers from her hair and handing them to guests as she passes. For a moment, Amara worries she looks almost too pure and graceful—Flora is the goddess of sex, not poetry—but Dido has been working long enough for Felix to know how to behave. There is more than a hint of Victoria in the way she bends to drop a rose in Cornelius’s lap.

“You should have given one to my wife,” he says, pulling Dido closer to kiss her when the song is finished. “For all the children she’s given me.” It should be a compliment, but Amara can sense an unpleasant edge to his tone.

“You have a fine son,” a woman replies from another couch, her voice querulous. She is younger than Cornelius and painfully thin. Even the brightly colored dress she wears, bunched in fat folds of expensive fabric, cannot hide how tiny she is underneath. Lying beside her is another woman, a little older, scowling ferociously. A friend, or perhaps even her mother. Amara still finds it difficult to understand the Roman custom of respectable women attending mixed dinner parties. Her own father would never have insulted his family by insisting they join him.

“Thank you, Calpurnia. Yes, one son after an abundance of girls.”

“And delightful girls they are too,” another man declares. “A credit to you both.”

“Women have their uses,” Cornelius replies, letting go of Dido. “Will you sing another song, little dryad?”

“Would you like a story?” Dido asks, glancing over her shoulder at him as she walks back toward Amara. “We can tell you the tale of Crocus and his love for Smilax.”

“And we will sing of the goddess Flora who gave the unhappy lovers new life,” Amara adds, finally breaking away from Quintus whose wandering hands have made her fearful for her expensive clothes.