“Memories don’t go away,” Soleiman sighed. “Who was Jacob the Fatherless?”

Her hand struggled toward him. “Don’t stir the filth of my past.”

Soleiman sprang up and danced around the room. He had a feline quality, a sensuality like a panther. Removing the sword that leaned against the wall, he drew graceful figures in the air above her head. With his blade, he lifted a curl from her shoulder and planted a kiss on the tip. He made her laugh even as she hurt. His words were like a balm. “First acknowledge, then sever yourself from your past so you’ll be able to greet future possibilities.”

“I don’t have a future without you.”

He was tempted to encourage her to remain here. They could flee the empire, far from the Shah, where even eagles would not find them. He would till the land to produce fruits and grains, and she would grow strong and bear him children with chestnut hair, ringing laughter, and sweet, wandering eyes.

What right did he have to indulge in senseless fantasies? What could a penniless acrobat offer to a past favorite? In his home, with columns of malachite, she would evoke the palace where eunuchs had bowed to her every wish and servants had scrambled to bathe and dress her, where a powerful Shah had flung jewels at her feet, and her daughter awaits her return.

“Your future is in Pearl Hall,” Soleiman said. “It’s a wondrous place. Like a pearl hidden in an oyster. Pry the shell open, prod the pearl from layers of slime, hold it up to the sun, and discover the laminate with all its shimmering colors.”

Her laughter permeated the small room. “You’re a hopeless dreamer, Soleiman.”

“Tell me about Jacob the Fatherless.”

An acrid smell stung her throat. Something burned in her stomach. Flames lashed in her bones. “My mother rarely talked about him. ‘He was a blacksmith,’ she said, ‘that’s all you need to know. He melted iron. That was his passion.’ If I demanded more, her hand sprang to her chest and grief contorted her face. Once, I asked why she did not light the furnace at home, even in winter. The mark between her breasts flared. She said the fire reminded her of married life and whore-wives.

“I remember heavy hands. Maybe they belonged to Jacob the Fatherless. They tied me up with wires. Through a funnel, they forced steaming liquid down my throat, but it didn’t burn me. My bones began to sing, but my eyes became dry until the day I fell from the horse.”

Silence formed icicles around Soleiman’s lamp. The mystery began to unravel. Jacob had used liquid iron, the oldest weapon known to blacksmiths. However, Rebekah had protected her daughter well. Books of apothecary mention a certain potion of cypress, myrrh, and magic mushroom, which coats and shields the insides from scalding matter.

They were out of time. The Ancient Zoroastrian was at the door.