They have lingered too long. The shopkeeper comes out to try and persuade them to try on a string of cheap beads, becomes offended when they refuse. They hurry off toward the Forum at the top of the hill. It’s even more crowded than earlier, the street sellers have wasted no time setting up again after the rain. Amara leads Dido toward one of the wide colonnades surrounding the square. “Just smile at everyone,” she says. “Pretend you’re Drauca.”

“Is that what you do? Pretend you are someone else?”

“I am someone else. Amara isn’t even my real name; Dido isn’t yours.”

They walk slowly arm in arm along the brightly painted walkway. For all her bravado, Amara’s heart is beating fast. Nobody pays them much attention. Expensively dressed men, perhaps meeting to discuss the upcoming elections, brush past as if they are invisible. Hawkers ignore them, too busy with their own selling. They’ve no time to buy what the women are offering, not at this time of day. Undeterred, Amara suggests they try another circuit.

They walk again, pausing more often this time. Amara looks everyone in the eye, unwittingly carrying herself with the assurance of a young man rather than a flirt, while Dido occasionally manages a shy smile. They don’t quite hit the mark, neither looking like prostitutes nor respectable women, but this time, a few glance at them out of curiosity. They loiter at a stall for leather shoes, catching its sharp scent of freshly tanned hide. The seller demonstrates the suppleness of a pair of sandals, twisting the straps in his fingers. One man starts to haggle and another, perhaps the customer’s friend, stands waiting. Amara brushes lightly against him, as if by accident. He looks up and sees Dido who manages, somehow, not to look down. For a moment, Amara thinks he is going to see through them, realize they are two frightened women who haven’t any idea what they are doing. But that’s not what he sees. Encouraged that Dido hasn’t walked off, he leans toward her. “Too rough for your lovely little feet, surely?”

“We don’t have far to walk,” Amara answers. “Only a street away.” She stares straight into his eyes so he cannot mistake her meaning. “Why don’t you and your companion join us?”

They are standing so close he can slip his hand inside Dido’s cloak. She stiffens, gripping Amara’s arm until it hurts. It takes all Amara’s willpower not to slap him. She thinks of Felix, thinks of what he might do if they have nothing to give him tomorrow.

“That’s enough,” Amara says, more harshly than she intended. The man drops his hand, surprised. She forces herself into a false, lopsided smile. “Nobody handles goods for free, not if they aren’t buying.”

The man looks them both up and down. “Maybe later, ladies.” He turns his back.