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Livia’s wearing a new stola for the occasion, and her hair has been elaborately coiffed, the long locks braided in the back with the end curls stacked at the crown of her head. The few pieces of jewelry she owns, she now wears.

She looks teary-eyed, and the sight is a shock to me. I have been so certain for so long that she was dying to get rid of me. That I was nothing but a nuisance. Seeing her emotional is a revelation.

She steps forward slowly, and in response, my magic sifts out of me, winding about my arms and torso, protecting me as italways does when she grows near. And like every other time this has happened, Livia does not notice the pale orange plumes of my power. To her—and seemingly everyone else in the city—my magic is invisible.

She takes my clammy hands and squeezes them in her own. “My sweet child, you are a vision.”

I force out a tight smile as the singing outside grows louder.

“I know you have not wanted this. I have waited as long as I possibly could,” she says fervently.

My brow furrows.

She notices the look and laughs. “You think I wanted to give you off? Of course not. I would’ve been happy to let things continue as they have.” She swallows. “But this day had to come for you, as it must for all Roman women.”

She’s not wrong. Only a select few women ever escape being married off. And yet, I’d never applied that reasoning to my own situation.

“We have not always…gotten along,” Livia continues. “I hope that can soon change.”

“Gotten along?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. She makes it sound as thoughIwas part of the problem. As though her rages were simply a matter of disagreement between equals and not a mother physically inflicting her own hurt and anger onto a child.

Livia looks ashamed for a moment before the growing commotion outside becomes unignorably loud.

“We haven’t talked much about what will happen after today.”

My gaze drops to my few belongings, which have been neatly placed in two woven baskets.

“There are some things, such as us working together, that will stay the same. But you will live under a different roof, and you will have new duties to your husband and his family…”

She shifts her weight, and my stomach twists.

“On your wedding night…” She clears her throat, her eyes dropping to the knotted rope that cinches my waist, then draws in a deep breath. “There are things that happen between married couples. Usually, it happens in the marital bed…” She still won’t look me in the eye. “I’m sure you have at least heard of what I speak of?—”

“Livia!” someone shouts into the room, saving me from this agonizing conversation. “They’re here!”

She swallows. “Just be a good girl and listen to your husband. So long as you do as he says, you will be just fine.” Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears when she gives my hands another squeeze, and I try not to wince at her affection, which feels grotesque, especially alongside her instructions.

“Come,” she says, pulling me out of my bedroom.

Livia leads me into the main area of our house, where family and friends mill about. Once they see me, they begin to cheer, the sound blending with the singing happening out in the courtyard of the insula. Singing that’s moving up the steps and toward our apartment.

My gaze makes it to the threshold of our house just as, from the open doorway, my groom steps into view.

Quadratus is stout, with curly, close-cropped hair, a wide smile, and a gap between his teeth. Most telling of all, he has kind eyes.

Strange that looking into them, what I feel most is panic and dread. Like my future is a flip of a coin, on one side, I have the life of a tailor’s assistant and a merchant’s wife; on the other…Memnon and the vast unknown.

Quadratus crosses the room, his eyes fixed on me. Behind him enter his father, Titus, and the magistrate with his purple-edged toga. The rest of the groom’s guests wait in the courtyard below, and Livia’s guests leave our insula to join them until the ceremony is complete.

The magistrate scans the group of us. “Are both parties present?”

“We are,” Livia answers for the room.

“All right.” The magistrate unrolls a bit of papyrus and lays it out on the table.

The marriage contract. All it needs are our signatures for it to be complete. I stare at the papyrus, afraid I’m going to retch all over this pristine garment I’m wearing.

My groom moves over to me and reaches for my hand. My limb shakes as I take his.