“The herbs have to be fresh.”

“Amara,” Dido is shaking her head. “Not here.”

“I don’t have the money.” Pitane looks disappointed. “I thought you might keep the herbs, that you might spare me some, let me pay you back over time.”

“But why? Wouldn’t your master be pleased?” Amara says. “They’re usually happy to have home-grown slaves.”

“Martha took three days to die,” Pitane says. Amara and Dido exchange glances. Every woman understands the danger, the horror that childbirth can bring.

They have missed their place in the queue, but none of the three women rush to push back in. “If it’s money you need,” Amara says. “Then we might be able to help. But you have to be very sure you can pay it back.”

On their walk to the ironmonger’s Dido does not mention the deal Amara has just done, does not ask her whether Marcella has paid her debt yet, or when it’s due. But Amara can feel her palms sweating at the thought. She tells herself that there’s still time for Marcella to deliver, her debt isn’t late yet. And perhaps finding Pitane will incline Felix to patience.

They pass the bakery and stop at the ironmonger’s, listening to the clang of metalwork inside. “Do you think Salvius will even remember us?” Dido says.

“How many beautiful singers do you imagine he meets?” Amara replies, shifting the lyre higher in her arms, covering her nerves with bravado. It had been difficult to wrest the instrument from Paris. They had to pretend their music lesson was already arranged. No doubt he will drop them in it with Felix if the visit proves a failure. “Of course he will remember.”

They walk past the front counter where a slave is busy with customers and head deeper inside. The flute player is at the back supervising an apprentice, helping him fashion a lamp stand, holding it steady while the boy hammers at the legs and giving the odd word of encouragement. He is as Amara remembers, the same kind manner and graying hair. The two women wait, not wanting to disturb him.

When Salvius looks up, she can see him take a moment to place them, but then he smiles. “This is unexpected,” he says. “The lovely singing sparrows. What can I do for you?”

“We wanted to ask a favor.” Amara holds up the lyre as an explanation, hoping to pique his curiosity.

Salvius walks over, wiping oil from his hands onto his leather apron. “If you’re looking for an accompanist, I only play the flute.”

“I would be playing,” Amara says. “We were hoping you might teach us some tunes.”

“We would pay for your time,” Dido adds.

“Flavius,” he calls to his apprentice. “Keep working on the feet, please. Just how I showed you.” He turns back to the two women. “Let’s talk.”