Amara and Dido exchange a horrified look. Who is going to be interested in a pair of sparrows when there are two phoenixes in the room? Egnatius picks up on their alarm, perhaps realizing his lack of tact. “But nothing like your enchanting performance!” he exclaims, without a trace of sincerity. “My fair, innocent little nymphs!”

He prances off, exchanging what is clearly a filthy joke with the Spanish girls as he leaves. All three of them cackle.

“Shit,” Amara says.

“We haven’t even got any new tunes tonight,” Dido whispers. It’s true. Salvius has given them all the songs he knows, or perhaps all the songs he wants to share, and now, they have to spice up their routine with fresh words, but familiar music.

“It will be alright,” Amara says, convincing neither of them. “We’re just different from each other. It’s fine.”

“Did you know Felix was speaking directly to Egnatius?”

Amara shakes her head. All those days she has spent with him, working on his accounts, and he has never mentioned it. “No,” she says.

At first, Amara thinks it will be alright. She is soothed that Fuscus is there, that he has still requested her to lie on his couch for at least part of the meal. It has been many, many weeks since he paid for her company for the entire dinner. They chat about his sons, his business, even his wife, and he caresses her in a lazy, familiar way. But isn’t that how it should be? There’s not the same urgency when you’ve known a lover for a while.

Amara has a niggling sense of unease that there are fewer guests than usual, and no wives are present, not even their hostess, Calpurnia. Even so, much of the dinner feels reassuringly predictable. She and Dido perform, everyone seems to enjoy their singing, and Egnatius graciously steers them around the room. But Ipstilla and Telethusa are not left until the end of the meal like the mime actresses. Instead, Egnatius brings them in as the high point, just when everyone’s spirits have built to an especially convivial pitch.

Amara is reclining on a couch with a man she doesn’t know when they enter. He hasn’t spoken to her directly, but she thinks he might be called Trebius. He runs a tannery and is droning on about leather to his equally dull companion when Cornelius starts talking, his voice loud over the murmur of his guests.

“My friends,” he exclaims, “I think you may enjoy the next course. A Spanish dish with extra spice.”

There is expectant laughter, and Amara realizes that everyone has been waiting for this. She and Dido were only here to whet the guests’ appetites. The entire evening has been based on the new women’s performance.