By the time they reach the brothel, after what has felt like the longest walk of their lives, both women are ready to drop from exhaustion. Amara raps on Felix’s door.
“What?” Paris glowers at them both through the crack.
Amara slams her hand on the wood. “Don’t mess me around today. This is important.”
He stands back to let them in. “But Felix is with a client!”
“Then tell him we’re waiting for him in the bedroom.”
Amara feels as if she is standing outside herself, watching Victoria recount what has happened. She has never seen anyone cry so much. Victoria sobs her way through the murder, and all the while, Felix is holding her, kissing her face, pressing her hands to warm them. There is a tenderness to him Amara could never have imagined. She watches, a pain in her chest that she cannot name. He has never been like that with her, not even when she told him about Cressa, when she would have done anything to be comforted. Nobody but Menander has ever held her the way Felix is holding Victoria. The thought upsets her. She is not sure whether it makes Felix worse, if he is capable of love.
He looks up at her over Victoria’s bent head, the familiar coldness in his eyes. It is as if he has stepped outside himself too, in order to talk to her. “Tell me again what he said about Simo.”
“He said you won’t get away with it. You didn’t cover your tracks. Simo discovered what happened.” She pauses, remembering, as if the violence happened to somebody else. “Then he held a knife to my eye and said, This is for Drauca.”
“And nobody saw?”
“No. The body is in a deserted place. There was only one old man at the pauper’s field, and we didn’t even go back that way. I covered any trace of blood on us that I could see.” She shrugs. “Who would notice a couple of women?”
“You don’t seem too disturbed by watching a man die. Are you very sure he is dead?”
“She hit him here.” Amara gestures at her own neck. “Nobody survives a blow like that. Even if I had never read a book on anatomy, I would know he’s dead.” Victoria cries out again, weeping against Felix. He holds her head to his chest, rocking her back and forth. Amara stares at them both, unable to understand Victoria’s sense of guilt, irritated that she is still crying over such a worthless man. “He tried to kill me, and now he’s dead. There’s nothing to be upset about.”
“You will feel it later,” Felix says. “Everyone does, the first time. Even if you’re a bitch with stone for a heart.”
“What are you going to do?” Amara asks. “We’re all at risk now. All of us.” She is still too afraid of Felix to express her anger, but she feels it. Because of you, she wants to add. We’re at risk because of you.
“First, you don’t tell anyone. Not even Dido. And if you value her life”—he strokes the sobbing Victoria—“you will never mention it again, even to each other.” Amara nods. She knows the killing ties all three of them together, her blood debt to Victoria, the secret they now share. It is not a bond she wants to have. “As for Simo, I can take care of him.”
“We can’t afford to leave it.”
“No,” he says. “We can’t.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him.” Victoria looks round, desperation on her face. “I just wanted him to stop. I didn’t want anyone to die.”
“I know,” Felix says, rocking her again. He kisses Victoria’s forehead, whispering into her hair. “You were very brave.”
Amara looks at her friend, twined around their master like a needy child, unrecognizable from the strong woman she knows. Is this who Victoria really is? The thought makes Amara angry. “It’s nothing to cry about,” she says, her voice loud. “He fucking deserved it.”
“Shut your mouth!” Felix shouts. She sees Victoria shrink from his anger, even though it is not directed at her. He strides over to Amara, taking hold of her shoulders, shoving his face into hers. “She just saved your life. Have some fucking gratitude. Not every woman is a heartless bitch like you.” He lets go of her then scoops Victoria up again, as if protecting her from Amara.
She does not wait to be thrown out but walks from the room. In the corridor, her legs are unsteady. She manages to make it to the storeroom, collapses on her bed of sacks in the corner. Her sense of calm is fracturing. She thinks of Cressa’s pot, all those pieces on the ground. The shard in the man’s neck, the blood. Feelings are returning to Amara, coming back like the incoming tide, bringing terror with them.
She grips the sacks, feels the rough fabric against her fingers, tries to imagine burying her fear, shoving it under. She doesn’t want to feel afraid; she doesn’t want to feel anything. Tomorrow, she will see Rufus, sit with him in Drusilla’s lovely home, laugh, chatter about the house they will share. She will not be a woman who nearly died, who was held powerless with a knife to her eye. It will be as if it never happened.
Calm begins to settle back over her heart, like the ice on Balbina’s pool. Amara exhales, relaxing her fingers, letting go of the fabric. Nobody has their arms around her, but it does not matter. She does not need Felix, or anyone else, to comfort her. Every fear can be overcome if she only tries hard enough.
Amara does not move from the storeroom for the rest of the day. She is supposed to earn extra money on the days when Rufus pays for her, but Felix does not insist she go out. Night falls, and she is still sitting curled up in the same spot. Paris tries to goad her, imagining she must be jealous at Victoria staying the night, at the huge favour their master is showing a rival, but Amara stares ahead, as if she hasn’t heard him. Somehow, she sleeps.
The next morning feels as if she is still dreaming. She forces herself to go downstairs, spends time with Dido at the baths, listens to her as she pours out her fears about Ipstilla and Telethusa. It is the second time the Spanish girls have been booked by Egnatius while she and Amara are left behind. Amara can see how upset Dido is but somehow cannot reach her. Even though they are sitting side by side, it feels like she is a long distance away.
“Are you alright?” Dido asks. “Was it Felix?”
“Yes,” Amara says. Dido looks so worried that Amara wants to tell her what really happened, wants to warn her to be careful, but she cannot betray Victoria. Besides, it is not a lie. Felix is the cause. If he had not killed Drauca, she would never have been attacked. She begs Dido to stay close to Britannica, pretending it is for Cressa, but in reality, because she hopes the Briton will keep them both safe.
When her friends go fishing, she goes back to hide in the storeroom. Even if Felix charges Rufus double today, she cannot bring herself to pick up any men. The thought of approaching strangers takes her back to the necropolis, the knife, the man’s hands at her throat. How would she know if any of her customers wanted to kill her?
The effort of getting through the day is such a strain, Philos notices her distress when he collects her. At a safe distance from the brothel, he offers his arm.
“Do you need a moment?” he asks. “Just to collect yourself?” She nods. They cross over to a less crowded patch of the pavement, and she rests her back against the wall. “You’re alright,” he says to her. “I know it’s not easy.”
“Thank you,” she says, breathing out slowly, trying to let go of the fear. She turns to Philos. There is nothing but kindness in his grey eyes. The warmth of him, standing close to her, is comforting. “I’m so grateful to Rufus.”