The Shah stepped down from the dais. He would not be swayed. He would not allow a male stranger to touch the sultana and forever spoil her.

Raven was at his side; her hand lingered on his shoulder, her words pained whispers in his ear.

Rebekah watched the tip of Raven’s breast stab the king’s arm. Her tongue sweeping her lips, she went to a jug of water and drank long and hard. Breathless, the color high on her cheeks, she faced her father and, as if he held some secret potion that could cure her never-ending thirst, she asked, “Aren’t you concerned that I’m always dry?”

Rebekah did not care to wait for the king’s reply. Raven and her convenient thirst must not steal the moment. “Your Honor, six weeks have passed. No hakim, potion, incantation, prayer, or spirit cured my daughter. She’s crying herself to death. She can’t be healed with blind guesses.”

There was sadness in the Shah’s voice. “We have done and will continue doing all in our power for the sultana. But we will not permit another man to touch our namous, our most intimate belonging.”

Rebekah fell down and kissed the Shah’s feet, waiting for his grief to ebb and for Raven to storm out of the hall. Only when the Shah asked what else she wanted did Rebekah glance up. “Our last hope is the Ancient Zoroastrian. She might save my Gold.”

“Not Gold. Gold Dust. Gold Dust.” He stressed every syllable and rolled it under his tongue, as if that would bring her back. He gazed at the woman in front of him, in a humble stance he knew went against her grain, and he accepted this alternative.

Rebekah left the royal halls, aware of shuffling steps behind her. So the eunuch had dared steal out of his hiding place. She veered around to face him. “I’ve got your pickled cucumber, Narcissus,” she hissed, poison spilling from her mouth. “I won’t give it back until Gold Dust stands on her feet, a sound woman.”

He emerged from the shadows, a fearful man who had abandoned all hope, a bloated man with eyes almost invisible above morbid cheeks, caked sugar on puffy lips. He extended a begging palm, shaky with the overuse of opium. She almost pitied the ruins of the once powerful eunuch whose life now depended on the Shah’s mercy and on what was preserved in brine.

His hands sprang out and patted her in a desperate search. General Darius had forewarned him that the moment the Shah turned his attention from the immediate problems of the empire, the general would show him the inferior girth. Narcissus had to have his organ back before that happened.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Rebekah hissed, slapping his hands off. “Would I hide your precious meat on myself?”

“Years ago,” he mumbled, “slave traders deprived me of this life; now you’ve robbed me of the other.”