Rebekah cupped her daughter’s face in her hands and asked, “What now? Why this sudden interest?”

“To rediscover ways to captivate the Shah. Conceive again—maybe this time I’ll succeed.”

“Dear child, you have succeeded. Raven is your trophy, she’s far superior to a son.”

Gold Dust was aware of the futility of arguing with her mother about Raven. The two had developed a bond she did not comprehend. “Madar, the Shah is going to war. Tell me about habits of warriors who came to you, so I can impress him.”

“That is clever, Gold, but be careful you don’t appear more knowledgeable than he, or he’ll spurn you.”

Rebekah submerged herself into memories she did not want evoked. Throughout the years, soldiers from near and far had visited her because her name had traveled far beyond the Quarter—a Jewish whore who would not reveal their whereabouts at their most vulnerable. But the warrior who had impressed her most had knocked on her door a few weeks ago, at the beginning of winter, when putrid winds had began to blow toward the capital, foretelling the enemy’s approach. He came at midnight, his dagger-thin mustache and razor-sharp hair flaked by snow. He wore boots and leathers the color of mud; a sword swung at his side, stirrups on one shoulder. His turmeric complexion, slit eyes, and flat nose told her he originated from Mongolia, a place that bred terror, and his pestilential smell was further proof that he came from the enemy’s camp. His gaze bore through her brand and she recognized that curiosity had attracted him to her. She was pleased at the opportunity to conquer another man, this one, by all indications, himself a ruthless conqueror.

He took one look at the sprig of mint behind her ear and a river of tears splashed down his face. He pushed her away and marched into her house, past the makeshift partition, and entered her space as if he were the true owner. He instructed her to discard the herbs or it would send him into terrible convulsions. She saw his twitching face, awash in tears, and she realized that if she treasured her life, she would have to comply. For the first time since Jacob’s death, she put the mint aside.

He blew out the candles and the oil burners and undressed in the darkness. She climbed onto the pallet next to him and shuddered at his chill. He murmured in his rolling Mongolian accent that he had just sent his fourteen-year-old son to war.

“What startled me, Gold, was that I heard no trace of remorse in his voice.”

Rebekah harnessed her fear and passed her hand over his ice-body and discovered his short leg and the two stump fingers that didn’t know how to caress. She realized he was the great Teymour the Lame.