On any other morning, Felix would have been down to rage at the takings, but their wild grief has made the women untouchable, for one day at least. Amara wonders if he too might be grieving but crushes her sense of sympathy. Whatever happened to Felix as a child does not change who he is now. Fabia dresses their hair, her own face red from crying. Amara remembers what Cressa said about the old woman trying to find Cosmus, wonders what else the two women talked about, what secrets Fabia might know about their master.

When everyone is ready, they leave Ipstilla and Telethusa at the brothel and walk in a silent line to the Sparrow. The Spanish girls passed a miserable night, quiet for once, cowed by the frenzy of mourning for a woman they barely knew.

As soon as they walk in, it’s clear Zoskales has already heard the news. Amara suspects half the neighborhood must know by now, after they threw their own customers out. The landlord orders them wine and food on the house. He brings it to their table himself. “For the memory of your friend,” he says, pressing each of their hands in turn, his voice deep with sincerity. “For Cressa. May her shade rest easier in the other world.”

They thank him, Beronice weeping, but Amara fears Cressa will not rest, wherever her spirit is now. They cannot even bury her; there is nothing they can do to ease her passing.

“To Cressa,” Victoria says, knocking back the wine. The others follow. Amara tries to give Britannica a flask, but she turns her head. The Briton has not made a sound since she learned her only friend had died. Her silence disturbs Amara far more than the wild grief she expected. She feels an even greater sense of responsibility for Britannica now. It was, after all, the last request Cressa ever made, that they should care for her.

“Her pain is over,” Victoria says. “It was her choice. We should respect that.”

“Hardly a choice,” Amara replies, remembering Cressa’s face turned to hers in the harsh light of the harbor, and the misery in her eyes. “She didn’t want to lose her baby. Whose fault was that?”

“Don’t,” Dido says, shaking her head. “Please don’t. It doesn’t help.”

“It could have been any of us,” Amara continues, ignoring her. “Any of us. We don’t matter to anyone.” Beronice starts crying again, slumping down on the table, her shoulders shaking.

“Just stop,” Dido says.

“Sorry,” Amara replies. She looks guiltily at Beronice, who is wiping her eyes, trying to control herself, while Dido puts an arm round her.

“We should mark a spot for Cressa,” Victoria says. “Use her savings for some offerings, have the rites performed. All pay toward it if we need to.”