“You have a musical voice,” Pliny says. “Not too cloying. I can see why your father found you so useful. I find many women’s voices hard to listen to for long periods, but yours has just the right quality.”

“Will you let me sing for you?” she asks.

“I’m not sure I’m really a man to be serenaded with Sappho,” he says, sounding amused rather than unkind.

“I wasn’t going to,” she replies. “I used to sing a version of Nausicaa’s meeting with Odysseus for my parents. I thought you might find it pleasant.”

“By all means then,” he says, though his tone suggests he has agreed more through politeness than eagerness.

Amara and Pliny have dinner in the garden. With only the two of them present, there is no question of the dining room. He asks her about The Argonautica, about her views of Apollonius’s depiction of the love between Jason and Medea. She is grateful to have read enough to discuss it. After they have eaten, one of the slaves brings her the lyre, and she plays for him, a tune that takes her back to her childhood and the affectionate gaze of her parents.

She looks at him expectantly when she finishes, hoping he has enjoyed it. But the expression she sees on his face is one of immense sadness.

“Your parents did not serve you well, Amara,” he says at last. “You are a lovely girl. They should have ensured you had a dowry.”

“Please,” she says. “They are both dead. I cannot think badly of them.”

Pliny inclines his head in acknowledgement. “I understand. Forgive me.”

When it is too dark and chill to stay longer in the garden, they walk back up to Pliny’s room. There are even more scrolls scattered about than she remembers. “Ah, I forgot,” he says, pointing to a pile of women’s clothes. “I had them find you some more suitable things.”

“Thank you,” she says, resisting the urge to pick them up and see what he has given her. “I will wear them tomorrow. You are so kind to me.”

He watches her get undressed, with the same intent expression that she remembers from the morning. Amara hopes that he wants her, that this evening he will not move away. She knows that it is not him she has fallen in love with—it is the gardens, the beauty of the life he possesses—but there is no focus for her desire other than the man in front of her. In spite of her efforts undressing, he does not join her on the bed, instead sitting down at his desk to work.

“Could I not read for you?” she asks

“You must be tired,” he answers. “I would not expect you to sit up reading all night.”

“Please,” she says. “I would like to.”