Nicandrus wraps Dido in his cloak. He takes his time, smoothing it over her shoulders, reluctant to let go of her. “I can get the water,” he says. He heads to the well, starts refilling their bucket. It takes him half the time to work the pump that it took Amara. He hauls their pail out and clanks his own into the trough. “It’s not safe for you both out here, Zoskales would never send Sava out at this time of night.”

“Zoskales isn’t Thraso,” Amara replies. “Or Felix.”

“I know.” Nicandrus lifts out the second bucket. “I’m sorry.” He looks at them both—Dido muffled in his cloak, Amara standing rigid with her two lights like a lamp stand. “I wish I could. . . . I wish . . .” They stare back at him, waiting for him to finish. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he says to Dido, as if Amara wasn’t there. He picks up both buckets. “I guess we should get going. Zoskales always moans if I take too long.”

Amara hands Dido one of the oil lamps and sends her ahead. Nicandrus follows, and she takes up the rear with the second light. It’s brighter with two flames, and although one skinny man would be small protection against thieves, it still feels safer with Nicandrus than it had without him.

At the back door to the brothel, Amara is prepared to slip inside and give her friend a moment alone, but Dido stands on the threshold, blocking her way. She passes Amara the lamp, her hand no longer shaking, and takes off the cloak, giving it back to Nicandrus. Then she leans over and grabs the bucket from him, holding it like a shield across her front, spilling some water on her shoes. “Thank you,” she says, not looking him in the eye.

All three stand in the doorway. It’s painfully obvious that Nicandrus wants to hold Dido, to kiss her, anything to recapture the intimacy at the well. But it’s also obvious the moment has passed. “Anytime,” he says bowing his head, before turning and walking back to the tavern.

Amara feels sad, watching him go. “I think he was hoping for . . .”

“I know what he was hoping,” Dido says.

“Don’t you like him? I think he really cares for you.”

“I do like him.”

“Then why not?”

Dido turns to her. Her face is drawn. “I can’t bear any man touching me. They all feel like Felix.” She is gripping the bucket. “Even when he had his arms round me, when I wanted to hug him back, I kept thinking he was going to hurt me.”

Amara is about to answer, to say Nicandrus would never hurt her, but then she realizes she doesn’t know that for sure. Perhaps he is like other men, after all. “I understand,” she says.