Victoria splashes herself with water, sloshing it over her neck and arms. “Felix is different, you’re right.” She is jostled by a pair of matrons flanked by slaves carrying private tubs. The matrons settle themselves nearby, taking pains not to look at the women at the basin. They saw how Victoria and Amara rubbed each other down earlier, too poor to have attendants do it for them. “You might be rich,” Victoria mutters, too quiet for the other women to hear. “But look at your arses.” Amara doesn’t laugh. She would exchange beauty for money in a heartbeat. “I know what you mean,” Victoria continues. “Felix gets under your skin. He does it to everyone. It’s not just you.”

“I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Oh, he would never do that!” Victoria says indignantly. “Think of the money he would lose!” She peers at Amara’s neck and its faint row of bruises. “Very unusual for him to leave any marks though. You must have made him really angry.”

“Everything makes him angry!” Amara says. “Just looking at him sends him into a rage. He’s impossible.”

“You did go on and on yesterday, telling him what to do. He hates that.”

“I gave him good advice,” Amara says. “What was there to be angry about?”

“Sweetheart,” Victoria says. “He does not want advice from his whores.”

“He told me I can’t even . . .” Amara falters, shame preventing her from repeating exactly what Felix had said. “He said I don’t give him enough pleasure. That I should ask you about it, because you know what you’re doing.”

“He said that?” Victoria is clearly pleased by the compliment.

“He said you’re the only one who really knows what they’re doing,” Amara says. She does not add what else Felix said. That Victoria was half as pretty but had ten times the skill. “I think he actually enjoys it with you. He didn’t say so, but I got that impression.”