“No charity,” Rebekah whispered, amazed his voice had not lost its hold upon her.

“My wealth is yours,” the merchant said, rejoicing that the years had not reduced her pride.

Rebekah felt the man, his scent of rain-soaked woods. The silver at his temples had spread to the rest of his hair. The lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened. His smoky eyes harbored a sadness that came from living alone.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispered.

He was only being kind, Rebekah was certain. It was his nature. These were words of charity, not passion. “How is your son?”

“He’s well. He went to other lands, became a doctor, is married, has five children. All boys. I would have liked a granddaughter.”

Her eyes lighted. “I have one. She will become queen.”

“And Gold Dust?” He reached for her hand.

Her fingers grazed the lines on his palm as if her future was carved there. “She’s too sensitive. Not ruthless, ambitious …”

He squeezed her fingers. “Not like her mother?”

“My ambitions are for her.”

He wrapped a protective arm around her waist.

She welcomed his embrace. She was tired. Tired of pride and vengeance and aspirations. Tired of the Devil and his mint and the smell of iron that never went away. She ached to lean against Rouh’Allah and cling to the melody of his voice.

Words of love he had locked up for years poured out of him.

She realized this was not kindness and charity, but a love that had had time to ripen and sift out doubt. But her life had been directed for too long on her daughter. She did not know how to shift her emotions.

“Stay,” he pleaded.

What did he mean? Was she still a whore to him? Didn’t she deserve to be properly proposed to? She would not “stay” with any man, not even Rouh’Allah, who was the only man who sounded right to her, the only man to whom her nipples responded even in anger.

She dashed into the alleys.

42

We will sever your adulterous head!” the Shah roared to Gold Dust’s blushing roses. Uprooting them, he snapped their necks, ripped the petals, crushing their tenderly fed buds into the earth.

“How dare you!” he bellowed, stomping his flowers deeper into their graves.

From behind the hedges, Raven watched her father transform into a demon. Guilt-ridden emotions assaulted her. And an unexpected sadness. The most severe punishment she had anticipated for her mother was to be locked in the House of Tears. Then she would have made sure her mother had all the comforts she needed, save her lover. But the thunder of her father’s voice, and Hazel-Boy’s whispers, told her the king would execute his favorite. Faced with the possibility of losing her mother, Raven realized the extent of her love for her.

She was baffled by her father’s violent reaction. Was it the outcome of deep affection for her mother, or of injured pride? Thorns drew blood from Raven’s bare feet and intensified her thirst as she hurried away.