He lifted her on his palms, high above his head, an offering to the sun, to melt the rest of the ointment and dry her. Afraid to puncture the miraculous bubble she floated in, she remained silent. Had she mastered the sharks? Would she dare tell her father what had happened?

Ferocious sharks had observed her, had reeled away, not one had attacked. Soon she would learn their language and tame them. If she could last underwater for fifty seconds, might she not prolong her stay?

The diver rested her on the warm sand. Her hair spread out like silver feathers; she circled her arms around his neck and lowered his face, brushing her lips against his cheek. “Thank you.”

Cyrus offered the jar to her. “A gift for the fearless princess.”

She raised her hand to shield her eyes against the ruthless sun. “What’s the secret?”

“Sharks don’t like to die in their own natural habitat, especially in fresh waters, where riverain sharks live. When a shark senses the end is near, it will swim to shore and die on the bank. Once we find the carcass we remove the liver and layers of fat under the skin and boil them in algae and create an ointment that lasts for fifty seconds in water. Since large sharks feed on smaller ones, it’s essential to their survival to segregate themselves by size. Smaller sharks keep clear of larger sharks that endanger their lives. In sharks, sense of smell dominates the visual. Covered with the ointment, down there for fifty seconds you were one of them, but larger and more dangerous.”

24

Messengers were dispatched to the four corners of Persia, inviting satraps and heads of provinces to the capital to celebrate the twelfth birthday of the princess. Palace cooks began preparations two months in advance; gardeners lost sleep in fear of bad weather; royal seamstresses called for extra hands; shoemakers searched the bazaars for fine leathers.

The date arrived—a dry Persian evening. A breeze from the mountains flapped the banners on gilded posts. Viceroys, dignitaries, and generals strolled into the gardens. They brought sweet words, gem-studded jewelry, and child crowns. The Herald of Salutations announced the arriving guests. Torchbearers escorted them down a road paved with turquoise that led to an artificial lake of many fountains reflecting images of Corinthian pillars and lanterns encrusted with rubies.

Beyond, a world of roses unfolded. The Shah had allowed a pick from his private gardens—the flaming roses of Passion; the blushing buds of Gold Dust; the velvet-black, for Pari, the lost favorite; the most fragrant white ruffled roses with yellow fringes, named after Raven. Long-stemmed roses coiled around tree trunks, hung from branches, floated in pools. The footpaths were strewn with black petals. The night was fragrant with jasmines warmed by the heat of braziers.