Britannica stands up, immediately towering over her, and strides to the door, her face grim. Amara is not sure how much Latin she understands now. She suspects a lot more than she lets on, though she has yet to speak a word other than Cressa’s name. They leave by the back door since the shouting and gesticulating is still in full flow in the corridor.

“Baths,” Amara says, shepherding her strapping companion onto the pavement. Walking out with Britannica, they are scarcely short of attention, but none of it is the sort Amara wants. Britannica stalks along, her movements unfeminine, more prizefighter than prostitute. She makes eye contact with all the men, her gaze angry and challenging. If any return the look, she bares her teeth and hisses. They have only walked one street, and Amara begins to feel afraid they will be beaten up before they even make it to the corner.

“That’s enough,” she says, exasperated. “You win. We go back.”

Britannica turns on her heel, striding along the pavement, and Amara scurries after her. The corridor is finally empty, but Amara knows she cannot give up and stay in; she will have to go out fishing with someone. She follows Britannica into the cell where Cressa is still lying, prostrated in misery.

“Cressa? I know you’re awake,” Amara says. “Why don’t you come out with me? The air would do you good.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Cressa says.

“I know, but you can’t stay in all day,” Amara pleads. Britannica is following the discussion anxiously, but Amara ignores her. “We could walk to the harbor. I’ll buy you a wine.”

Slowly, Cressa pushes herself up. Her stomach has filled out, but her face looks hollowed and empty. “Alright,” she says wearily. “I’ll come.”

“Cressa!” Britannica says, her voice urgent. “Cressa!”

“I will be back soon,” Cressa says soothingly, patting the tall woman’s arm as if she were a child. “You rest.”

Amara knows Britannica will not be resting. She’s spied on her alone in here before, watched her throw endless punches and kicks at imaginary men’s heads. She shoots her a warning look as they leave. No trouble.

The walk to the harbor is slow and labored. It is hard to believe Cressa once made the same effort with her appearance as the rest of them. Now, she is grubby and disheveled, her hair unkempt. Whores age in double time, Amara thinks, and the idea chills her.

“I don’t know why everyone is so unkind to Britannica,” Cressa says, looking back over her shoulder, as if somehow, the Briton might be visible behind them. “What did she ever do but hate being trapped here? She has a good heart, you know that? I’d put her loyalty above anyone else’s. And she’s smart. I know nobody else sees it, but she is.”

“She’s not easy though,” Amara says.