“Rufus wants to give everything to a woman. You could almost say he wants to make her.” Drusilla cups her hands, as if sheltering something precious. “What he wants is a little wounded bird he can hold, feel its wings flutter against his fingers.” Her voice is low and crooning. Amara can almost imagine holding the bird herself, its tiny, frightened heart beating beneath soft feathers. “I was not fragile enough for him. You are.” Amara stares at Drusilla, still sitting with her hands cupped together. There are no words for the pain she feels, knowing it is true. “I have been you,” Drusilla says. “Veranius would never have let me go, only his death did that. But Rufus might be different. You might persuade him that there would be no greater pleasure than opening his fingers, watching the bird fly, knowing every beat of its wings, every breath it takes, it owes to him.” Drusilla opens her hands, and they both stare at the empty air. Then she drops her arms, sadness in her eyes. “At least, you have to try.”

Amara dines alone with Rufus, served a private dinner in the room with Leda and the Swan. Amara knows Drusilla is entertaining Quintus elsewhere in the house. She feels reassured that Rufus wants to lie with her before eating, at least making love to her is still more exciting than food, but she no longer feels the same comfort when he caresses her afterward. She keeps thinking of the bird, of what it feels like for him, holding his fragile, tragic little whore.

“I wish I could spend every evening with you,” he says, tucking into Drusilla’s grilled fish and beans. “If I had my way, we would spend every waking moment together.” He takes her hand and kisses it, looking sentimental. “You know that, don’t you, my darling?”

Amara’s heart is beating so fast, and her nerves are pulled so tight, she cannot touch her own meal. She won’t beg, not after Pliny, and in any case, she does not want to swap one enslavement for another. “If only I had a home, like Drusilla,” she sighs. “You could visit me whenever you wanted.”

Rufus kisses her, but she can tell he hasn’t taken her seriously. She tries again. “You are more generous than any man I’ve ever met,” she says. “I cry sometimes, when I’m alone, thinking about how you would marry me, because I know you meant it sincerely when you asked. Even though I could never accept. I would never dishonor your family that way.”

Rufus kisses her again, more passionately this time, distracted from eating by her adoration. “How I love you!” he murmurs.