“No one listens to my prayers.”

His fingers squeezed harder.

“I can’t breathe.” She gasped, her lungs about to burst. “I’m dying.”

He released her.

Her eyes sprang open. An expression, a certain slyness she did not comprehend but feared more than the hardness, altered his face as he gazed at her for a long time.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked.

She hesitated, suspicious, then asked, “This house? Forever?”

“Yes. You may go, on three conditions. You’ll leave right now. You’ll take nothing. And the donkey remains behind.”

She flew to the door and flung it open, refusing to throw a second glance at what she was abandoning. She ran straight to the stable to say her farewells to Venus. She grazed her cheek against the animal, looked into his eyes, pressed her mouth to his ear. “Please, please, don’t be angry. I’m leaving, but can’t take you.”

His eyes mournful, the donkey turned his neck and spat at the entrance to the stable.

Bewildered, Rebekah spun around, certain Jacob had followed her. An accusing emptiness confronted her. Venus emitted a long, grievous bray. She held the bridle and pressed her face to the donkey. Jacob would kill Venus if she left. Rebekah slumped on the hay. She had no alternative; if she stayed he would kill them both. She had to return home to her mother and demand to meet the man who had left behind a voice that would not die. She stood up, wiped her tears, and brushed the hay off her skirt. “Forgive me, Venus. Good-bye.”

She hurried back to the house to pick up her chador. She pushed the door that had been left open, and entered. Jacob had not budged from the center of the room. He stood with the box cradled in his arms, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Did he think she would not leave without Venus? She ran to the bedroom, snatched her veil, tossed it over her head, and rushed past Jacob toward the door.

“I forgot to tell you,” he called behind her. “Your mother died last Sabbath.”

She whirled around to scrutinize her husband’s expression, and she realized he was telling the truth. Now she understood why her mother had not come to visit.

He thrust the coffer, tools of a wife-whore, back at her. “You’ve nowhere to go. I’m your only hope.”

She shuffled into her bedchamber, dropping her clothing in a trail behind her, certain the Ancient Zoroastrian’s holy fires foretold nothing but lies, certain she would never again laugh.