“When is he going to buy you your own?” Drusilla asks, as they sit down together, Amara positioned to play the instrument, Drusilla close beside her to instruct.

“Today, if I let him,” she replies with a sigh. “But I’m not good enough yet, I don’t want him to hear me.”

“But you could practice every day with your own. You would improve more quickly.”

Amara knows it is true. She is finding the harp harder to master than she anticipated. Every time she plays the lyre for Rufus, however beautifully or skillfully, all he wants to know is when she will entertain him with the harp. There’s no malice in the way he asks, it’s all eagerness like a child, but his insistence makes her feel insecure. She wishes he could enjoy the instrument she already plays. “I’m not sure why he’s so set on this,” she says, patting the strings.

Drusilla strokes her lightly on the back, brushing her hair over one shoulder. “I think it’s an encouraging sign,” she says. “He’s making his mark. Turning you into the perfect concubine to suit his tastes. If he invests enough money in you, he won’t look elsewhere.”

Amara feels a flicker of anxiety. It’s a constant shadow, the worry of losing her patron’s interest. “Let’s try Sappho again,” she says. “I nearly had it last time.”

They play for an hour or more. Amara is a dedicated pupil, never complaining when Drusilla gets her to practice the same chords over and over. For her part, Drusilla is an exacting teacher, not only passing on her musical knowledge, but also her advice on how Amara should hold herself to look as attractive as possible when she plays.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Drusilla says, running her hand along Amara’s arm. “You are getting tense. I was serious earlier. Let Rufus buy you your own instrument. You will learn faster.”

Amara follows Drusilla to the couch. The maid, Thalia, has left them some wine and pastries. “All this effort,” Amara remarks, helping herself to a bun, telling herself she will eat less later. “Can you imagine Rufus and Quintus spending their afternoons deciding how to please us?”

“Not Quintus, certainly,” Drusilla says with a frown.

“But he adores you.”

Drusilla shakes her head. “A man like Quintus will inevitably want the excitement of something new, sooner or later. And I worry it might be sooner.” She toys with her wine glass. It is blue, no doubt bought from the shop she rents out, the red of the wine shining purple through the glaze. “I’m not in love with him, as you know, but a new man is always a disruption. I’m used to Quintus now.”