“No, oh, no, God forbid. She’s just not well in her spirit. She’s young. Youth needs the company of youth. Come to Pearl Hall and perform for her. But first work your muscles. Wash your hair. Go to the barber. It’s such a shame, sweetlove, you’re buried under a blanket of stinking indifference.”

“I waited until bees plucked at my cuffs, until rosebuds teetered at my feet….”

She blew kisses into the air and shook her bangles. “I’ll mend all the hurt.”

He controlled the urge to repeat the words she had once thrown at him when she had first invited him to the harem: “Don’t try to impress me, it’s my daughter who wants you.” But he remained silent to hear the exhilarating beat of his temples, the rush of blood in his ears, the thumping of his heart. He was alive again. He would rather confront the dangers ahead than remain a living corpse.

She saw hope and fear in his eyes. “Soleiman, I’m close to the Shah. I’ll protect you both. But remember, you’ve no future with her. Don’t attempt to become intimate. One touch could lead to another, then you’ll find yourselves in such trouble no one could save you.”

Soleiman did not say that he was a patient man, that he never rushed his emotions, and that while seeking out his lost love, he had remained a virgin and would continue to remain one if he had to.

Rebekah’s fingers traced Soleiman’s cheeks, the cut under his chin, the delicate curve of his neck. “Don’t paint your face, Soleiman. The sultana prefers pale men.”

Thirty-five days after Rebekah had visited Soleiman, the Shah called for khalvat, the seclusion of the gardens. The gates were locked. The guards kept watch outside, the eunuchs inside the gardens.

The sultanas poured out of the harem and fluttered behind the Shah like vibrant butterflies. Apart from Honey, no sultana cared to miss this day. The Shah had not had a woman since his pledge to Gold Dust. Now each sultana prayed she would be the one the king would spend the night with.

Metal railings and velvet partitions went up in the Hall of Entertainment.

Raven had been ordered to remain behind, at her mother’s side, but against her father’s instructions, she now ran to catch up with him. She brushed her lips against his shoulder. “May I join you, please?”

His arms circled her waist and, feeling her young body, he drew back. Why did her touch, her scent generate such contradictory responses in him? She was his blood and flesh. Why did that matter? Throughout Persian history fathers had wedded daughters and had produced heirs to the empire. He faced her. “You had orders not to abandon your mother while the acrobats perform.”

For some time now, Raven had noticed a certain turmoil in her father. Although he invited her to his quarters, he dismissed her without addressing any specific subject. He was restless, snapped at her for no particular reason. He shied from her touch and visited the harem more often, his glazed eyes following the sultanas. The determination now etched on his face told her she must not argue.