The urgent race of Gold Dust’s heartbeat replaced the echo of Raven’s retreating footfalls. What if Soleiman was no longer the man she had tattooed in her mind with fine needles that had left such an imprint even time did not fade? What if the face she had glanced at when he had removed his mask was no longer full of pride? His eyes no longer an ocean of tears. His passion no longer transparent beneath his fair skin. What if that leather-brown face she had sped by in the alleys was his true color? No different from her mother’s night-men. No different from the Shah. Taking a deep breath, she approached the gauze inset.

In the center of the hall, framed by the borders of her private window, he faced her. Her own intimate portrait. No props, no bear, no cobra, and no Giant Man. His magnificent body, gleaming with oils, shamed the image of her memories. His burnished hair reflected the copper light from the many torches around the hall. His eyes were pure blue. His complexion the shade of compassion.

She must plead for his forgiveness. She should not have believed her mother that day in the alley behind the baths. Unable to clap, she changed the tone of her voice and whispered, “You may start.”

Soleiman the Agile was disappointed. This voice did not belong to his sultana with the amber eyes. She had lived in his heart forever, but she still considered him a stranger from whom she had to hide her true voice. Then he realized that they must not be alone. Eunuchs must be watching from behind screens. It was prudent not to exhibit any sign of intimacy. He, too, must respect her and conceal his emotions.

In his mind he subtracted certain notes and added others to re-create the voice of the shy girl with the cherry anklet. And to that composed melody he began to perform.

Lids half-mast, head bowed, his hands curled above his head in the pose of love idols, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life on him—eternal silence—his hands abandoned their dazed stance, trunk rooted in place, limbs, waist, and neck twisted in a miraculous show of power and resilience and in absolute command of his body—an expert craftsman with a fine chisel, his fingers carved each posture against the outline of his silhouette and paused in each stance to acknowledge the admiration of his master. Then his legs folded; finding the carpet, his palms came together; his forehead rested on the dome of his fingertips.

She began to understand the posture of supplication, of prayer, of pleading. “Please, continue,” she begged.

He heard the ring of her true voice, the sadness, the many questions. His heart pounding with fear and pride, he rose, spinning on his toes, his hands extending in a meditative stance, curving, praying, imploring, conquering the hall as if it had no boundaries, as if he would fly through the walls like a spirit, leap through time and never come back, yet he always returned to the center, an innate grace infusing his every move, folded down, his forehead kissing the ground on which she walked.