“She’ll get used to it. And if not.” He shrugs. “Some customers like that. Not that you have to worry, not after I got this letter from your posh boy,” Felix holds up a note, a look of amusement on his face. “He is demanding you have lodgings outside the brothel.”

“Rufus?” Amara is stunned.

“How many posh boys do you have? Yes, Rufus. I’ve sent a reply back with Gallus. He’s not offering enough for every night. But I’ve agreed you will only spend two nights a week here, as long as he pays the retainer.”

Amara thinks of Rufus at the theater, the way he gave her the jasmine, his acceptance of her anger. She feels touched in ways she cannot express, certainly not to Felix.

“Don’t just sit there!” Felix says, irritated by her lack of reaction. “Pack your things up.”

“But where am I going?”

“You can sleep upstairs. In the storeroom with Paris.”

“I can’t leave Britannica alone; I promised Cressa.”

Felix draws the knife again, crosses to Britannica, points it at her face. She flinches, but Amara is surprised she doesn’t show greater physical fear. “You. Stay. Here. Not. Move.” He leans forward, gripping her thigh with his free hand, in an unmistakable gesture of sexual aggression. This time Britannica looks more afraid. Felix stays where he is, until she cowers, no longer meeting his eye. Amara has never despised him more.

He stands up. “You just need to be firm with her,” he says, heading for the door. “Now get your things.”

Amara follows him, looking back briefly at Britannica before leaving the cell. She hopes the hate on her face is meant for Felix alone.

Paris is as delighted by the new living arrangements as Amara imagined he might be. Felix’s slave boy doesn’t dare express his discontent in front of their master, especially after the boss makes it clear he doesn’t want any squabbling, but as soon as Felix has left Amara in the storeroom—one more piece of property to be added to the pile—Paris turns on her.

“You can sleep over there,” he says, pointing to some empty sacks in the far corner. “Right over there. I don’t want your smelly cunt anywhere near me.”

“Oh, piss off,” Amara replies, dropping her father’s bag on the sacks. She isn’t going to argue for a space closer to Paris; the further away they are from each other, the better. “As if you don’t have to rent your arse out too. And I bet you don’t just get down on your knees to scrub floors up here.”

“Fuck you,” Paris says, clenching his fist. His face is red with fury.