Soleiman raised the parchment. “I composed a poem for you.”

Here there were no cutting words. No fear of a king who dangled from the talons of his daughter. Here, in the light of day, she was not afraid to touch this pale-faced man, who in her silence had felt her embarrassment and had covered her up.

“Will you recite this poem?” he asked. “I’d like to study your voice.”

In a voice laced with passion and longing, she read what, she soon discovered, was the continuation of Soleiman’s story.

Even in death, the boy with the lashless eyes did not find peace. As hard as the angels who guarded the gates of heaven tried, they could not find a place for a man who had lost his inner organs and had entered heaven with a lovesick heart. The angels congregated to decide if his soul was worth saving. They raised their wings in a unanimous show of approval. A man who had spent his life searching for love deserved a place in heaven. Each angel would donate to the boy her own organ and a few drops of ambrosia that flowed from the fountain of love.

When the boy heard them, a storm formed in his purple eyes, and his lashless lids fluttered in grief. His gaze had penetrated their ethereal bodies and had learned that each angel owned one organ; one had a heart, another a liver, another a kidney. They functioned as a unit. He struggled to free himself from their grip; he would not enter heaven at the cost of their lives.

Soleiman cast his eyes down to hide the tumult she created by rendering life to his story.

“Did he enter heaven?” she asked. “Why didn’t you end the tale?”

“He was allowed into heaven for a very short time.” He reached out to her, then withdrew his hand. “Your voice rises from the depth of your throat with an assurance rare among sultanas. It’s seductive, filled with promises, and powerful. Not smooth. That’s monotonous. But rich with lows and captivating highs, validating itself through obstacles. Husky notes concealing defiance and unresolved emotions. The outcome of a harsh childhood. Child, do you understand?”

Amused that he addressed her as the Ancient Zoroastrian had, she burst into her contagious laughter, pleased she had not lost it with her persistent tears. “Can’t you see I’m not a child?”

“I see everything,” he murmured. “Have you noticed your tears have stopped?”

She touched her cheeks. In his company, she had forgotten her grief.

“An old pain in your bones has not been acknowledged.”

“You’re too serious, Soleiman. Forget old pains. Put your hands on my joints to solder them and bring back my music.”

“Soon,” he whispered, noticing her trembling fingers. “Your bones will heal. Now they’re buried under confusion. Lift the burden and your bones will sing again. I’ll be your guide.”

She wondered at a love so selfless he insisted on her healing, despite the awareness that it would be the end of her visits.