One day, he continued, the prince was going to the city and asked the poor slave girl if he could bring something back for her.

“A stone,” she said. “There’s a purple stone by the bank of the river under a big casuarina tree. Please bring it back for me.”

“What for?” the prince asked.

“I cannot tell,” the poor girl said.

This piqued the prince’s curiosity, but he asked nothing more.

When he returned the next day with the stone, the poor girl set it beside her bed in the slave quarters. Each night she told the stone her sorrows. She told the stone about her poor parents and how she had to go out and beg for food; she told the stone about how she’d come to the castle for a cup of water, and how she’d removed all thousand thorns from the prince’s back, and how the woman in the gold dress took advantage of her at the very last moment. Each night, she told the stone the same story over and over, and each night she told it, the stone grew bigger. Every time she recounted the story, the stone took on a bit of the weight of her grief and grew heavier, until after many weeks, the small stone was the size of a tremendous boulder!

The prince, meanwhile, had grown curious about this stone. How come it kept getting larger? So one night he hid behind the door of her room and listened while she poured out her grief to the stone. When she came to the end, he burst into the room and said: “Poor girl, what you say must be true, because the stone keeps growing with your story. And so I have betrayed you. It is you I should have married.” And with that, he banished the woman in the gold dress from the castle and made the poor girl in rags his bride.

Is that it? Ana asked.

Pars took a sip from his drink.

More or less, he shrugged.

What about the stone?

Pars smiled slyly. He removed his glasses and began cleaning the lenses with the tail of his shirt.

Everyone has a patient stone, Pars explained. You see, my mother used to tell that story, and I believed it. You tell your story enough times, and you leave a bit of it behind, some of the misery rubs off with each telling.

Do you still believe it?

I don’t know, Pars said. It’s a very Persian idea, telling stories to survive, weaving them into a fabric. Do you know about Shahrazade?

A little, Ana said.

She was actually Iranian. Not everyone knows that. They assume the Arabian Tales are Arab, but in fact the Hazar Afsana was originally Persian.

Ana sighed and unfolded her arms.

But I forgot something, Pars said.

What?

He nodded toward her foot. Your splinter.

Oh, that.