Rebekah’s hand fluttered on her brand, the padlock of her memories. In this synagogue, her mother had once held a parchment, a decree to end her childhood, proof that Jacob the Fatherless had taken her as his wife. Neither she nor her mother could have predicted the cruel abruptness with which Jacob would end her innocence.

Now, her mettle hardened by the rancor of time and bent on twisting religion to her fancy, she had returned with her granddaughter, the Princess of Persia.

The rabbi lifted his hands in a prayer and thanked the Lord for sending the whore away. Wobbling to his feet, he limped to his room, which held a mattress, a washbasin, a few prayer books, and an oil burner for light, heat, and cooking. He bent close to Rebekah’s face. His hands shot up to his eyes to erase the image of the barefaced woman, her mouth the color of evil. Sickly heart beating against his bony chest, he mumbled a chain of absolving prayers to a Lord who had forsaken him.

Rebekah nudged Raven, who removed her mask, suddenly transformed into the image of virtue. “Will you offer this child to the butchers?”

He flapped his hands in the air and called out to the ceiling: “She’s like cotton! The curse of the parents shall descend upon their offspring.”

A grape-wine flush darkened Raven’s cheeks. She planted her palm on the back of the rabbi’s neck and forced him into obeisance. “Express the proper respect to your future queen. We are staying and that’s it.” She spread her chador on the mattress and lay down next to her grandmother.

33

Narcissus’s eyes sprang open. His body, heavy as lead, buzzed as if ants swam in his blood. His stare turned to the mantelpiece to check the hourglass. Had the sun risen and set once, twice, or three times? He extended a hand to the table at the head of his mattress and with much difficulty lifted the jug of water and emptied it on his face. Gasping, he tried to recall the past days: The Shah had gone to war with Gold Dust. He had visited the stables and had chosen Dor, the fastest and dumbest purebred. Rebekah had come to visit. He sighed. The opium. She had used more than one suppository. His mouth was as dry as an ink blotter. Rebekah was here. She had inserted the opium. No, he had. When did she leave? Had he helped plan the war strategy? Gold Dust would never return. Not with the inferior girth and the stallion’s speed and temperament. His lust gland throbbed. His rectum burned.

He must go to the baths to wash off the stink of opium, blood, and rodent. Blurry-eyed, he stepped into his pants and buttoned his vest. Reached out for his sash. Snatched his hand back. He stared, stunned. The stretch of satin lay flat, lifeless. His jar!