May I tell you a story about a splinter? he asked. Actually it’s about a stone. It’s a very old Persian story. Everyone in Iran knows a version of the patient stone. My mother used to tell it to me.

Sure. Ana shrugged.

Pars removed the glass flue from the candle and held the tweezers to the flame, one side, then the other, sterilizing the metal.

There was, he started, a very poor girl who stopped at a big castle one day for water. She was thirsty and a long way from home. As soon as she entered the courtyard of the castle, a gate slammed shut and she couldn’t get out. In the middle of the courtyard lay a sleeping prince whose back was bloody and covered with a thousand thorns. Beside him was a note that read: Whoever removes the last thorn from my back shall be my bride.

Pars set the glass flue back on its base. Ana had drawn her knees up to her chin and sat listening in her chair.

The poor girl was dressed in rags, Pars continued. She wasn’t interested in marrying the prince; that was beyond her imagination. But as the hours went by, and she couldn’t leave the castle, she began picking thorns out of the prince’s back, one after the other. At first it was merely something to pass the time, but soon it became a challenge. One day passed, then another, and each day she removed a few more thorns. It was difficult work. But after several weeks, she began actually to like this prince, even though they’d not spoken a word to each other.

At last the day came when only one thorn was left in the prince’s back. The poor girl in rags was about to pull the last thorn out when a woman in a gold dress burst into the courtyard, pushed the girl aside, and snatched the last thorn from the prince’s back.

At that very moment the prince awoke and saw the girl in rags—she’d fallen to the ground—and the woman in the gold dress holding the thorn triumphantly over his head.

“Prince,” the woman in gold said. “I’ve taken all the thorns from your back, and here is the last one as proof.”

“Then you shall be my bride,” the prince announced.

The girl in rags lay on the ground still. She was not used to talking to princes, so she said nothing.

The woman in the gold dress said, “Prince, I’ll marry you only if you make this ragged girl my slave.”

“So be it,” the Prince declared. And so it was.

Pars lifted his martini and took a cautious sip.

Not a very cheery story, Ana commented.

Wait, it doesn’t end there.

He put the glass on the table; there was a slight mischievous look on his face.