The guests prostrated themselves.

Tinkling preceded the royal procession. Raven, crystal bells bouncing on her anklets, led the Shah and Gold Dust, followed by the harem and eunuchs. The princess radiated in a flurry of emerald silk, golden lace, and hand-embroidered gauze. Her smile betraying the dimples on her cheeks, she snapped her hand up in a formal salutation. And none mistook her for a child.

She plucked a black rose from behind her ear. After days of sniffing different flowers, she had pretended to give in to her father’s request and had agreed, only for that evening, to replace the sprig of mint. Still, now she felt a certain thrill to wear the rose he had bred for his beloved Pari. As if the gardens were not moist with fragrance but with an offensive odor, she waved the flower under her nose.

Gold Dust eyed Raven as she strode toward her small throne and sat, striking one hand upon the chair arm in a signal for the flute players to announce the commencement of festivities. She did not know her daughter, never understood her fury, her fire, the need for the world to bow at her feet. And her obsessive, almost smothering love for her father.

On the Shah’s face shone the brightness of pride. Never, not even before he was imprisoned in the Cage, had he dared display such zest and spirit as his daughter did. Her existence was proof that the days in the Cage had not emasculated his seed, that despite his inability to produce sons, he was not a weakling. If only his late father were present to appreciate his granddaughter’s spirit. The Shah sat back and struck one hand on the chair arm as his daughter had done. He had shown his support for the princess.

After midnight, fire baskets were brought in to heat the air. Rebekah the Bundle Woman entered, followed by a trail of scarlet velvet. A flourish of sequins on her veil enveloped her in a glittering halo. A bunch of mint lodged behind each ear as if the usual sprig no longer staved off the haunting odor. She flipped her head back, let her chador slip off her head, and with an exaggerated shake of one hand, fluffed her curls. “Good evening, sweetloves,” she cooed to the guards. “Do you see that beauty on the Shah’s right? That’s my granddaughter. Oh! And on his left is my daughter.”

Even if Rebekah had planned to enter the celebration modestly, Raven would not allow it. Marching down from her throne, she grabbed a horn from one of the trumpet bearers and sounded it with all her might. A hush fell over the gardens. The guests turned their gaze to the entrance.

Rebekah, knowing how to behave in the Presence, fell prostrate at Raven’s feet, circled her arms around her granddaughter’s ankles, and planted loving kisses on her toes.