Rebekah examined the pregnant udder. The teat felt warm.

“No more than a palmful,” the ancient one sighed. “Be cautious. More will seep into her blood and poison her.”

Rebekah cupped the treasure in her hands.

“Go!” The ancient one whispered, “The hand of Ahura Mazda aid you and remember that after pain there is always laughter.”

Every evening, before she put Gold Dust to bed, Rebekah squeezed a drop from the teat into her mouth. She watched her daughter drink hot goat milk, the steam rising from her throat, with no sign of pain on her face. She saw that she swallowed from Jacob’s soup without wincing. She marveled at her increased resistance to hot liquids and hoped the elixir had created a protective shield inside her daughter.

Rebekah’s panic-stricken voice echoed around the house. “Gold Dust!” Her bed was empty. Where had Jacob taken her? To force liquid iron down her throat? “Gold Dust!”

Jacob sat by the kiln, Gold Dust on his lap. He thrust her into Rebekah’s arms.

“What did you do to her?”

“The devil afflicted your daughter with a curse,” he shouted, running out of the house.

Rebekah pressed her ear against her daughter’s heart. Her bones were singing. They had turned into flutes. Melodious vibrations filled her marrow. Sad notes drifted out of every pore.

Had the music scared Jacob from acting upon his threat, or had the Zoroastrian’s elixir saved Gold Dust from the liquid iron Jacob had forced down her throat?

“Gold Dust,” Rebekah whispered. “Did you drink something very hot?”

Gold Dust stared at the door, then touched her throat.

“Jacob’s gone. Don’t be afraid. Do you hurt here?”

Gold Dust opened her mouth. A viscous residue mottled her tongue and throat. Rebekah rubbed Gold Dust’s tongue with her finger and put it in her own mouth. Was this the caustic taste of iron, or the taste of her own fear?

“Help me, Gold. Was it hot?”

“No,” Gold Dust replied. “It was bitter.”

Rebekah cuddled her daughter on her lap and tried to decipher the melodies of her bones.

When Gold Dust was sad or in pain, her music resembled the melancholy notes of a sitar; when confused, the jarring beat of tambourines; and when happy, the playful chime of bells. In the ensuing months, Rebekah realized that her daughter’s music was the manifestation of her emotions.

Her feelings had been transferred into her marrow to be protected by her bones.

Rebekah set out to teach Gold Dust to restrain her music. “Imagine going through life with your bones singing in the presence of friend and foe. Learn to hold back your music like you do your tears and laughter.”

Her honey-colored eyes wide with wonder, Gold Dust listened.

“A woman must recognize her weaknesses and strengths,” Rebekah continued. “Yours reside in your bones. That’s why they ache when you’re sad and sing when you’re happy. Manipulate your music to your advantage.”