Soleiman struggled to complete his story, but the knowledge that today would be the last time he would see Gold Dust dulled his creativity. He had tried to accelerate the healing process, but when he mentioned her childhood, she folded into herself. From rare glimpses of her past, he had learned that a cross-eyed man with a bloated belly who smelled of burned metals figured prominently in her memories.

He searched his books for help from Socrates, Aristotle, and the canons of the great physician Ebne Sina. He racked his brain for an approach to help her brave her past. Suddenly he rose and leaped in the air, hands applauding, toes tapping. He had, at last, located the problem and the solution had followed.

The yodeling of the Ancient Zoroastrian floated through the window. The sultana was at his door. He drew the drapes. He would receive her in the glow of a lamp he had made by blowing a camel’s bladder into a sphere and painting it with lacquer to hold the shape.

With the help of a cane, Gold Dust stepped down from the stretcher without help. Soleiman followed, arms extended, ready to support her. She walked slowly but steadily toward the cushions, her face golden in the light. Even in that fragile state, he preferred her to any woman. Yet not once had he touched her, not even a brush on her lips. It had nothing to do with her frail body. Her fearless temperament and expansive laughter made up for all else. To him love was like composing music. He imagined himself and Gold Dust as two players creating a tune with their emotions, notes that ripened, surged, and soared into waves that would wash over them in an inevitable climax. He was a patient man who did not have the luxury of time.

He helped her recline. His mouth lingered, a breath away from hers. Her lips parted. She pressed her expectant eyes shut. She felt a stirring. He withdrew.

“Touch me,” she pleaded.

He saw that, despite her request, she was scared, too. And she was disappointed. Should he disclose that he did not dare touch her because he feared for her life, because he had promised her mother? Should he tell her he had read her mind? Yes, he was still a virgin and he was courting disaster, and she was aware of that, too. He must not tempt her into an emotional tangle worse than she already was in.

He placed on her lap his writing board, a bleached collarbone of a camel. “I found your cure. Last night, remembering our discussions, a name that populated your childhood memories came up again and again.”

“Forget the past.” Her childhood must not intrude into her last hours with Soleiman. She had locked her memories in a safe place. Memories that had hibernated to spark sporadically. They would lead to others and others that would crack her protective shell. Then she would return to the harem more vulnerable than before.