That day was the beginning of her life. Today might be the end of it, and she wanted to dress appropriately.

The crumpled silver veil and the glass-studded skirt were stained with years. She had worn this glittering skirt and vest on the same day the merchant had found her daughter unworthy of his son. She pressed the garments to her nose. The scent of ancient cypress had drifted from Rouh’Allah’s cloak; his melodious voice still populated her nights. She clasped the old glass beads around her neck. Had the cheap necklace offended him, too?

The skirt and vest fit her as they had in her youth, hugging her waist and flaring out at the hips. She sprinkled them with water and sat by the kiln for the heat to dry and smooth them out. She wondered if the eunuch had a heart for memories to soften, if he would recognize the garments she had worn when she first introduced him to his lust gland and the joy of an orgasm.

The flames crackled. Fire sparks of iron flashed against the kiln. The blaze turned orange, the color of the amber prayer beads Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God had toyed with the day her life took a different turn. Sparks flared, sputtered, hissed, died. Yellow. The color of the pouch of coins Rouh’Allah had thrown in her lap. It had hurt. The fire emitted the odor of greed and fat. She gazed into the hearth. A pool of yellow appeared at the bottom. Her stomach lurched. Bile stung her throat. Liquid gold.

Her late husband’s wealth.

Poor Jacob. He had first melted his gold in the fire and had then stepped in to join it. Years ago, when she had searched the house, she should have thought of the kiln. I’m a rich woman, she thought, and felt no joy. She slumped back on the stool and waited for the flames to die and the yellow river tainted with Jacob’s fat to harden.

She tossed a bucket of dirt into the kiln and buried Jacob again.

41

The Great Black Eunuch stared at Rebekah’s stained vest and moth-ridden skirt. The past, faded and rusty, was imprinted on her, a nymph pulled out of an ancient coffer. Her steps were light and full of promises; tarnished glass studs shimmered around her. His heart ached with anticipation. The pain was unbearable. His knees wobbled. He did not dare take a step toward her. Once she gave his treasure back, he would regain his strength. The first time she had introduced him to his lust gland, he had felt such vigor, a euphoria greater than opium’s, sweeter than the hypnotic sway of her hips as she approached him now, an apparition who would restore his manhood. She levitated, an angel of mercy in antiquated clothing. A mirage. Not again. Not the bleating calf. They cut him from the roots. Clean-cut.