She is sure Rufus will free her soon, he must do. But even if he doesn’t, if he only buys her, it will still be a thousand times better to be his slave than belong to Felix. The prickle of fear returns, but she rubs her arms angrily, as if she can physically brush off her anxiety. A bang from Cressa’s old cell distracts her. Britannica.

The cell’s curtain is moving slightly, swayed by the movement behind it. She bunches the fabric in her hands. It stinks. “It’s Amara,” she says in a low voice, announcing herself before she enters.

Britannica does not look over. Not for the first time, Amara is struck by her strangeness. She is far too tall for a woman, and now her red hair is too short. It grew so matted they had no choice but to cut it. She is almost ugly in her disregard for herself, yet Amara still feels a sense of admiration for Britannica’s body, for its undoubted strength. All the effort the rest of them put into looking desirable seems feeble in comparison.

Amara watches the pale arms, jabbing the air. She wonders when Britannica last left her cell, when she last saw daylight. She thinks of the promise she made Cressa. “You should get out for a while,” Amara says. “Come to the well with me.”

At first, the other woman gives no sign of having heard, but Amara waits. She has learned that Britannica will always respond eventually. She watches her aiming punches that fall just short of the wall. If she misjudged, she would surely break her hand. Then, without warning, she suddenly stops. Britannica rifles through the blankets on her bed, finds her cloak and flings it on, before picking up a jug on the floor. She tilts her head to one side, looking at Amara, impatient. What are you waiting for?

Amara collects the brothel’s communal bucket from its place by the back door. They walk together down the street. The silence is anything but companionable. Britannica radiates aggression, staring down anyone foolish enough to look at her. Amara wonders if she would actually be glad should one of the men approach—Britannica seems even more eager for a brawl than Paris.

They reach the well. Two men are already there, perhaps slaves from different households, grabbing the chance to chat. Amara waits patiently, even though they are doing nothing more than blocking the way, neither showing any inclination to fill a bucket. Eventually, they deign to notice the women and step aside, but there’s no mistaking the way they stare at her body. She wouldn’t be surprised if they have kept her waiting on purpose.

Amara says nothing but walks forward, swinging her bucket into the well. It clanks onto the stone. She starts working the pump, aware the men are standing too close. One places his hand on her backside, pushing her. “Need some help?”