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I stare out the doorway of the apartment I live in, watching the early-morning goings-on of the lively courtyard of our insula.

Beneath me, many of the other occupants of this complex are already up, washing laundry or chatting as they get ready for the day.

A few kids play knucklebones and street sellers set up baskets filled with produce and bread.

A young mother soothes her crying toddler, holding the child close in her arms. At that brief show of love, a terrible yearning seizes me, and I have to tear my eyes away.

It’s taken years for me to acclimate to this city—its language, its people, its customs, its sweltering stink.

And as my gaze lands on two Roman soldiers passing through the complex’s courtyard, I’m sure I still haven’t fully acclimated.

Not when my breath hitches at the sight of them and my skin grows clammy.

The childlike terror is an old, familiar sensation, but the rage that festers like a boil beneath my skin—that is new. These Roman soldiers might not be the same evil men who killed my family and burned down my home, but they could have easily destroyed someone’s life, killed someone’s family.

“Girl!”

I tense at the shrill sound of my adoptive mother’s voice coming from inside our apartment.

“ Girl! ” Livia calls again. The irritation in her voice is unmistakable.

I wander back inside, bracing myself.

Livia stands by our kitchen table, which is littered with folded bits of cloth, some wound yarn, and a few stray loom weights.

She has a bit of gossamer-thin gauze fisted in her hand, her dark eyes flinty. “Why is the gold detailing on this veil not finished?”

My heart hammers as my gaze drops to the translucent yellow fabric in her hand.

Livia runs a thriving business tailoring clothes for the elite, and as her dependent, she expects me to assist her in all ways, including tailoring garments myself.

But my hands are clumsy, and I work too slowly to make up for it.

She knows this, but she also knows there are too many items and not enough time anyway.

However, mentioning all of this will only stoke her anger, especially when she caught me daydreaming, so I swallow my explanation before I can voice it.

This time, my silence angers her all the same.

“You useless, worthless thing,” she spits out, shaking the veil in her hand and crinkling the delicate material, one of her deep brown curls loosening from her updo.

“I saved you all those years ago, sheltered you, fed you—” Her chest is rising and falling faster and faster, and I’m trying not to cower or back up, which has only ever spurred her on.

She takes a threatening step forward, and now my pulse races.

“All for you to be a lazy, sullen girl. Now, answer me: Why isn’t this finished? ”

“I was about to?—”

She closes the distance between us in two quick strides, then hits me, hard . The sudden force of it sends me careening into the wall, bits of plaster and pale-green paint flaking off from the impact.

“ Don’t lie to me! ” The pitch of her voice has me cowering.

It’s the wrong reaction. It always is.

Livia hits me again, this time on my upper arm. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out.

“I saw you standing there, daydreaming like you had all the time in the world.”

Another hit, this one to the head.

I fold into myself, trying to become as small as possible. Tears well in my eyes, and more than the pain and terror, I hate this reaction.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I plead over and over again. Anything to make it stop.

She kicks me once, twice, in the abdomen.

I choke on my breath, and it takes me a couple inhalations to regain my voice. “Please,” I say hoarsely, “ Mother ?—”

I don’t mean to call out for my mother, to that warm, half-forgotten presence that hummed songs to lull me to sleep and brewed strange things in the pot that used to hang over our hearth. The woman who once must’ve held me as that mother in the courtyard held her child only moments ago.

Livia pauses, her foot pulled back. I can hear her heavy breaths and sense her acidic rage. I know she’s fighting to keep herself from hitting me again. It scares me that she is so full of fury.

Finally, she lowers her foot back to the ground and drops the unfinished veil on top of my huddled form.

“You won’t eat next until that’s finished,” she says, looming over me. “I don’t care if it takes you all day and all night, you will get it done.” To herself, she mutters, “Why I took you in is beyond me.”

Her words are nothing I haven’t already heard, but they still land like another blow to the head.

I know Livia once had a husband and daughter and that the two of them died in quick succession. She could’ve remarried and had more children; lots of Roman women do. Instead, she worked her business alone until she adopted me.

I cannot fathom why she made that fateful decision. Livia is hardly sentimental. Still, sometimes I catch her looking at me with a shine in her eyes, and I wonder if I remind her of the daughter she lost.

Whatever her reasons, every day feels like a held breath.

I rise slowly, my belly hurting where she kicked it. Sometimes even getting back up can anger her all over again.

Livia presses her lips together, her eyes flicking over me as she moves to the table. I can feel her anger and disgust thickening the air.

“Fix your hair,” she says sharply, gathering up the yarn and the loom weights, “and put something more modest on. We’re meeting with Septima Opimia later this morning, and she holds modesty above all else. She’ll pass on our business if she sees you looking like a harlot…”

Livia’s voice fades as pressure builds beneath my sternum. Strange, inexplicable pressure.

I place my hand over the source of it, taking in a shallow breath as the sensation crowds out all others, blunting even the throb of my flesh.

What is happening to me?

I’ve never felt anything like this…or have I?

Wasn’t there a moment long ago…?

Flames and smoke and dull, glassy eyes fill my mind, scaring off whatever wisp of a memory I was about to touch.

And still, the pressure is mounting, mounting?—

Livia’s frown lines deepen, but for an instant, she looks concerned, like she might’ve taken things too far.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands.

I’m about to answer when, all at once, the pressure releases, like water breaching a dam, and something seals into place, right beneath my breastbone.

With it comes pain. I lock my knees to keep from falling as a sharp, throbbing sensation blooms in my left shoulder.

Est iwapagu sinavakap metum… ? 1

I sway a little at the sound of a young, masculine voice speaking in a foreign language. It is like nothing I’ve heard before. And yet it’s so close, almost as though it’s coming from inside my own?—

Logu suwwas iv’taburwa. ? 2

My gaze sweeps over our apartment, taking in the table; Livia’s agitated face; the chipped green walls; the long shelf that holds our pitchers, bowls, and cups; the massive loom leaning against a back wall; and, on either side of it, the baskets filled with fabric, yarn, beads, and tailored garments.

There are many things in this apartment, but a young man is not among them.

“Girl,” Livia says, her voice a little more demanding, her face a little more annoyed, “pull yourself together.”

I try to breathe around the strange sensations flowing through me—pain, alarm, determination.

“Just feeling faint…”

Iv’tassa e’waditvak singatasava. Lusavasa guxip ewwatavak metum… ? 3

I place a hand to my head at the return of the young male’s voice. It’s definitely coming from inside me, but that only makes the situation more distressing.

Beneath the words themselves, there’s desperation and exhilaration and pain —my shoulder continues to throb.

Pain that eclipses my own.

“Here.” Livia moves to the shelf and grabs a pitcher and cup from it.

She pours me a glass of watered-down wine.

“Drink this and get yourself together,” she insists, pressing the cup into my hands.

Despite her abrasive tone, I think she’s genuinely worried about me.

At least, until she adds, “I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of the senator’s wife. ”

My hand shakes as I take a sip, trying to steady myself.

I’snut ivwagu ruvwavu bovotavak… ? 4

The wine sours in my mouth, and I set the cup down on the table shakily. Whatever is happening, I’m not fine, and liquid won’t help.

“I’ll—I’ll go fix my hair,” I mumble.

Before Livia can respond, I stumble to my room. The space is small yet sparse, adorned with a stool, a shelf, a bed, and a couple of baskets holding my clothes and more garments to sew and mend.

Hastily, I place the veil I still clutch into one of them and then I collapse onto my thin mattress. Half of me expects Livia to follow me in and scold me again for laziness, but instead I hear her move about the living area, then leave our apartment.

I exhale—one less thing to worry about.

My shoulder still aches from that phantom pain, and my stomach churns from wine, and…and…

Si’nap sunwatud wi’va’ta dotzakummu etavaku inpuburpusa. ? 5

I press my palms to my eye sockets.

Shut up , I tell the voice.

I know there are people who hear voices—is this what they deal with? This is awful.

Lasa otvas do si’n! Pesa govak pusanutapsa susazakunam wek i’nagatvup, vakosazakunam wek wovubga. ? 6

Shut up! I say louder, beginning to panic.

What happens if the voice doesn’t go away? What if this is my life now?

Unduwu, sak kikat vuratavaksa wusnubaga. Pesava mi’ratis zakunva’awugavusa sutvunut metum di’nvusagu. ? 7

Damn you, get out of my head! I shout.