Amara wonders what Sarah thinks of Pliny sending her a prostitute to look after. She has never been anything but polite. Amara sits obediently in the darkness, the cloth pressed to her closed eyes, while Sarah does her hair. When she has finished, Sarah takes Amara’s hands from her face. “Better,” she says. “Now dry them.”

Sarah picks up the kohl and a slender brush, drawing delicate lines around Amara’s eyes with swift, deft movements, and then dabs a dark gray powder on her eyelids. A glass vial sits on the dresser, jasmine distilled from the garden. She passes it to Amara who unstoppers the lid and rubs the scent along her neck. Sarah takes it back, hands her the small silver mirror, the final rite in their ritual. Amara looks at her reflection. In the respectable clothes Pliny has given her—no doubt also chosen by Sarah—she does not look like a young woman who works in a brothel.

“Thank you,” Amara says. “For everything.” Sarah nods, polite but not inclined to talk. Whatever she really thinks of Pliny’s guest, it is impossible to guess.

Pliny himself is reading a scroll when she joins him in the garden. She sits down silently, trying not to think about how soon she has to leave this place. She wonders what Rufus will be like, tries to summon the energy to charm him, muster the will to seize the opportunity Pliny has laid out for her. Secundus arrives with bread and fruit. He has not served food since the first day of her visit, when she suspects his real purpose was to examine her, so she is surprised to see him with the tray.

Secundus looks at Amara, as if appraising what is wrong with the scene. “Shall I bring you your lyre, mistress?”

“Thank you,” she says, grateful to be given something to do.

She has breakfast—Pliny is still too engrossed in his scroll to talk to her—then begins to play. The feel of the strings beneath her fingers, the chance to lose herself in singing, is a relief. An hour passes, the sun warming the garden, the flowers opening their faces to its light.

She plays tirelessly to Pliny as he reads, as if she were his devoted daughter.

“Rufus is here.” Secundus is standing by his master. As always, she did not hear his approach.

Amara deliberately carries on playing, only glancing up briefly to see a young man hovering by the fountain. He is gazing at her, clearly not expecting to see anyone but the admiral.

Pliny beckons him over. “Rufus! How is Julius? I was sorry to miss him in Misenum.”

“He sends you his warmest greetings,” Rufus says. “As do my parents. They are spending the summer at Baiae, or else they would have called on you while you are staying in Pompeii.”