On the third day after the fire, Felix sends for her. She follows Paris to their master’s study, waits while he pushes open the door. Inside, Victoria is perched on Felix’s lap, sitting with him behind the desk, her arms around his neck. She drops them as soon as Amara walks in, embarrassed, and Amara loves her for that, knowing Victoria doesn’t want to make her feel small.

“Time for you to go back to the brothel,” Felix says. Amara bows her head, goes to walk back out again, but he stops her. “Not you,” he says. “Time for you to go.” He tips Victoria from his knee. She grabs the desk, only just managing to save herself from falling flat on the floor. For a moment, both women think he is joking. Then they realize he isn’t.

Amara knows something has broken in Victoria then; she sees it in her face. Victoria does not beg or even say goodbye. She turns and walks out of the room, her eyes dry, not acknowledging either of them.

When she has gone, Amara and Felix are left looking at one another. “I missed you,” he says. She cannot reply. For the first time since she has known him, Amara senses that Felix does not know what he wants to say. He gestures at the pile of tablets heaped up on her old table. “Who else do I have to do my accounts?”

She sits down, still without speaking, and opens the first tablet.

By the eve of the Saturnalia, Rufus has still not told her when he will buy her. The strain of waiting and worrying is so great she is afraid she will break down and beg the next time she sees him. She knows there are no depths she would not sink to, not if it means escaping from Felix. Even a lifetime under the same roof as Hortensius.

She sits at a table in the Sparrow, drinking with her friends, while they discuss what presents they can afford. The whole town is heaving, and street sellers ram the pavements, trying to shift a few more trinkets before the festival starts.

“I can’t wait to see what Gallus has bought me!” Beronice cries, giving Dido a smacking kiss on the cheek. She has had a lot more wine than usual. “Three whole days with him! Oh! Just think of it!”

“One more night, then we get a rest from customers,” Dido says with a sigh. “Are we buying something for Britannica? We ought to.”

“She do nothing,” Ipstilla huffs.

“That’s not really the spirit of the Saturnalia,” Beronice says, frowning. “I don’t mind chipping in. Though I don’t know what she’d like.”

A knife, probably, Amara thinks. But she doesn’t suggest it.

“Getting me anything, girls?” Zoskales calls from the bar. He is in an excellent mood, no doubt looking forward to a day off from his customers too.