Amara glances over at Drusilla with even greater interest. She has the same poise that she remembers from the theater. Even the arrogant Quintus seems to be making some effort to impress her.

“We should certainly accept her invitation,” Rufus says, following the direction of her gaze. “If you would like to.”

“I would. Very much.” Amara looks down, her nerves perhaps easy to mistake for shyness. “But then I think I should enjoy being anywhere with you.” She looks up and can see Rufus has understood her meaning.

The rest of their dinner passes without much attention to the food. Both are on a high of anticipation, every small touch of the hand, even when passing the wine, is heightened. It almost feels like love.

It’s dark when they walk the short distance back to Rufus’s house. Philos and another slave accompany them, lighting their path. The house is familiar to her now. The jasmine has faded in the garden, instead, the air is scented with myrtle. She remembers her offering to Venus at the Vinalia, the favor she asked. It helps her make her decision about how to behave. Tonight will be all about performance.

She is grateful when Rufus dismisses the other slaves; she prefers to be alone with him. Philos has left the lamps burning, and wherever their glow touches the walls, they illuminate scenes from the stage, though much of the room is draped in shadow. Amara realizes she has never been inside Rufus’s home in daylight.

She had half expected him to leap on her, the way he did on their first evening together, but instead, she finds he is reticent. Amara steps out of her clothes—slowly, so that he misses nothing—and steps into the role she has chosen for herself: the courtesan in love. It sits halfway between truth and lie. Every trick she has ever learned, every means of giving pleasure, she gives to Rufus. She even finds her nights with Salvius useful, not for herself, but because he taught her about delay, in his own unfulfilled quest to please her.

None of it is unpleasant. She even finds, for the first time, a certain enjoyment in making a man happy, because this particular man is one she likes. But it is impossible to separate her affection from her need to make him want her, not just for the one night, but to want what she can give like this, over and over.

Afterward they lie together, covered in sweat, his skin warm against hers. “I love you,” he says, kissing her. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replies, holding him tighter.

“I’ve never known a woman like you. You never ask for presents. The only thing you’ve ever asked is that I give you time.”