A shudder scurried through Gold Dust’s body. Although she had often heard of the miseries of the Jewish Quarter and the horrors of the pit, her mind had become incapable of imagining such poverty. In Pearl Hall, Soleiman the Agile was a prince with his entourage. Even the Giant Man was clay in his hands. Gold Dust turned to steal another glance at his house, which seemed part of the pit itself, lopsided, cracked, lonely. She had forgotten the world of the acrobat, cholera, smallpox, worms that find their way into intestines. Where scorpions rule over human flesh. She had forgotten the smell of urine, of decomposing bodies, horseback riders who whipped Jewish children. But she remembered the orphans who crouched behind the baths, their imploring hands eternally extended. They were still here, boys and girls Raven’s age.

What would happen to Raven? Would the explosive energy in her daughter, which she liked to believe she had a hand in containing, spring loose and wreak havoc? Then the world would whisper that she orphaned her daughter for nothing but a whim.

What arrogance made her believe she could control her daughter’s temper?

Gold Dust freed her arm from Rebekah’s grip and sped toward the baths.

Soleiman waited. He waited until rosebuds bloomed at his feet. He waited until clouds shrouded the sun. When he had lost hope and was about to turn back, he saw two women clad in the drab brown robes the sultanas wore on rare occasions when they went out—uniforms that made it impossible to identify one woman from another. But Soleiman recognized them. He had once seen, and would never forget, Rebekah the Bundle Woman’s swinging hips as she had left his home that day. Her daughter had the same inviting sway. And from the slits of her veil, her eyes, warm and scintillating, were the color of honey.

Soleiman tightened his muscles, as he did when he prepared to grab ceiling ropes, and he lifted his body to four fingers taller than his usual height. As they approached him, he sucked in his stomach, squared his shoulders, and patted his burnished curls into place. A face the color of burnt almonds overwhelmed his azure eyes. He reached out his hand with the branch of cherry blossoms.

Gold Dust saw a changed man. Bewildered, she turned to her mother. “He removed his mask that day. You saw him. He was fair!”

“Our minds deceive us in strange ways,” Rebekah replied. “We see what we want to. I was there. He is dark.”

They glided past Soleiman, one woman clasping the arm of the other, who glanced back in shock.

His gaze pierced their backs. Rosebuds teetered at his feet. Bees plucked at his frayed cuffs.

28

Arabs, Mongols, and Teymour the Lame marched toward Persia. Throughout history, when Persia had begun to flourish, assaults on her frontiers had often occurred. But this time an overwhelming fear filled the hearts of the Shah and his people.