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It was a tired conversation. Livy refused to accept her explanation that in the outskirts, as in Etruria, it was common for women to inherit from their family lines. Safinia had learned to ignore it. She allowed herself to be bullied into one cuff-like bracelet off Livy’s wrist, but would accept no other jewelry besides the ring tucked into her collar, and nearly gave him apoplexy by continuing to carry her spear. This, too, had been an argument between them. Livy insisted that to invoke guest friendship—the obliged hospitality men with status offered travelers—she would have to be the model of a highborn woman. Safinia felt that if she were to lean on her mother’s reputation, she should at least carry something of hers.

“I wish I had slippers for you,” Livy said. He trotted to keep up with Safinia—she’d started walking once she realized he wasn’t going to quit trying to get her to do things his way. “Your boots are ridiculous in that dress. Now, Safinia, about guest friendship. You’re going to need to be prepared with all the recent news from Cures, to trade to the governor for his hospitality—”

He stopped to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. Safinia bit her lip to keep from laughing at him. “And for the honor of all gods, straighten your spine!” he called. “If you’re the death of me today, I swear I will haunt you.”

Crustumerium’s gray walls loomed long before they reached the gates. They were much larger, more imposing, than Cures’s. As they gave their names to the gate and were shown inside, Safinia looked around curiously—Crustumerium was said to be much larger than Cures Sabini, albeit with fewer people. That seemed true; the streets were wide enough for several wagons to pass side by side, and the buildings much shorter. There was space enough to see the sprawling way to the top of the hill, where the governor lived, past an amphitheater and a long stretch of carefully maintained greenery.

There might even be space for farms inside the city walls. Briefly, Safinia was filled with a new respect for her mother—it wouldn’t have been easy to lay siege here.

A pair of somber guards showed them to a guest house in the governor’s villa, with strict instructions for Safinia to attend dinner with the family that night. Livy could get nothing out of them but a few stoic grunts for as many questions as he asked. They didn’t address him at all, which he begrudgingly admitted meant he was not invited to accompany her. It was almost worth his indignation at having his status weighed against Safinia’s and found wanting.

“I don’t know what to tell you, you should have been born sophisticated, like me,” she said, watching him pace.

“If you combined the wealth of every savage king and jumped-up governor on the peninsula, you still wouldn’t come close—”

“Maybe if you’d had just one more bracelet.”

“You have my bracelet!”

“I know,” Safinia said happily. “The best part is how dirty I’ve gotten it already.”

Livy muffled a scream with his hands.

The guest house was luxurious, bigger than Mettius’s family home, with heavy drapes disguising the packed mud walls. There was no hearth to keep burning—their food would come on delivery from the governor’s domestici. Safinia traced her fingers over the walls as she inspected the quarters. The bedrooms had mattresses, not mats. She set her things down in a room with a distinctly wild motif—crawling vines were painted along the ceiling. Safinia stared at them, gnawing on her lip. Had Hersilia been here to speak to the governor’s daughter? She’d been holding on to hope that the disappearance was a self-made one—maybe they would find her here, hiding out from whatever threat waited in Cures.

Footsteps drew Safinia back to the entrance. A domestici stood stiffly with Livy, though he brightened when he saw her.

“You’re Calliste’s daughter?” he asked. “I’m to prepare you for dinner.”

“You can just call me Safinia.”

“Not in Crustumerium.” The domestici laughed. He unfolded a small stool and arranged an inscrutable assortment of things on it: a bowl of water, a knife that wouldn’t cut fish, a few small cosmetics pots. “In Crustumerium, you are our Lar made flesh.”

A pang went through Safinia. If only her mother really was a Lar, back home, looking out for her.

“Y’can call me Quintus, though,” the man said. He grinned at Safinia and she was startled into smiling back. He was slight but only a few years younger, by her reckoning. “I’m not important enough for a title.”

“If I’m important, you’re important enough to wait on me.”

“Well, this isn’t my normal job. I’m sure it’ll be back to the old drudgery before too long.”

“What drudgery is that?” Safinia sat and let him clean her hands. It appeared the dull knife was for digging up dirt from under her nails. Livy had wandered off to scribble on his scrolls.

Quintus appeared to be very focused on her nails. Finally, he turned back to the stool. Only with his face turned away did he answer: “My usual job is with the master’s daughter. Sylvia.”

Safinia’s pulse quickened. “Will she dine with us? I’m eager to meet her.”

Quintus smeared his thumb in one of the pots and it came away green. With a businesslike air, he smoothed the pigment over Safinia’s eyelids, then pursed his lips as he inspected her. “Your face doesn’t take paint well.”

“I’ve never had cause for it.” Safinia remembered too late that she was meant to position herself as a rich woman. “Not usually, I mean.”

“There’ll be no point doing your lips, then. It’ll only emphasize how torn they are.” He smeared at her face with a damp cloth. With his face close, assessing her apparent failings, Safinia could see an edge of concern hidden behind his critique. “Have you dined with fine people before?”

“Of course I have.”

“I mean—” Quintus paused to choose his words carefully. “With fine people who didn’t already like you?”

Safinia opened her mouth to bite a retort, but now Quintus wore worry plain on his face. “I guess not,” she said. Tarpeia didn’t count.