Victoria’s singing wakes her in the morning. For a while, Amara lies in her cell, listening to the sound, the sweetness of the voice so at odds with the harsh reality of the singer’s life. She knows almost nothing about Victoria’s past. At least she and Dido were loved once, and she knows Beronice and Cressa spent the first few years of childhood with their mothers, but Victoria has never belonged to anyone but an owner. Yet every morning, she sings her heart out, filling this dark place with joy. Amara wonders where Victoria learned so many tunes. She realizes how much she has missed their friendship since her change of fortune at the Vinalia.

She gets out of bed, dressing herself quickly, and slips into the corridor. The compacted mud floor under her feet is hard and cool. She stands at Victoria’s door a moment before drawing the curtain back. “Can I come in?”

Victoria’s singing stops abruptly. “Suit yourself.”

“What was last night like?”

“The usual. Have a nice party?”

“It was dinner above the ironmonger’s. Not really a party.”

“Still. Dinner, though,” Victoria says, face turned aside as she does her hair. “In a house. With free wine. Better than one meal a day.”

Amara pauses, wondering how much she owes Salvius for his kindness last night. “The customer got me to dress up as his dead wife. In this musty old robe.” She sees Victoria hesitate, knows there’s nothing she finds so irresistible as a ridiculous sex story. “Had the perfume out ready and everything.”

Victoria gives in to curiosity, puts down the hairbrush. “You’re joking.”

“Asked who I wanted him to pretend to be.”

Victoria laughs. “I hope you said Jupiter. In his form as a pile of fucking gold.”

“What are you two sniggering about?” Beronice stands, bleary-eyed in the doorway.

“Just a customer,” Victoria says. “Remember what they are? Before Gallus?”

“You know I had at least three last night,” Beronice says, offended. “Including that really annoying idiot from the laundry. What’s his name again?”

“Fabius,” Victoria says. Amara wonders how she keeps track of all the names. “He’s not so bad.”

“She got drunk again,” Beronice mutters, leaning out into the corridor and looking back at Cressa’s cell. “I don’t know where she finds the money. She’ll drink every last penny she’s ever saved at this rate.”

“Wasn’t Cosmus born about this time of year? She’s probably missing him.” Victoria goes back to brushing her hair. “Did Fabius have his usual cry afterward?”

Beronice sits down heavily on the bed. “So boring,” she says.

“That’s why you have to get them in the right mood!” Victoria says. “You can’t blame him for crying, not if you’re lying there with your sour I’d-rather-be-with-my-boyfriend face. At least make a bit of effort.”