When there were no more roses to raze and no more curses to hurl, the king wondered if Gold Dust’s execution would cause Raven grief. A king had to do what the empire expected of him. And after all, Raven had been the one to confirm his suspicion.

At first he had shut his ears to Moon Face’s words. How could Gold Dust have fallen in love with another man? Had he, the king, not fulfilled her every desire, indulged her with every extravagance a woman could fancy? Then Gulf Lily had repeated the accusations. Still, the eunuch was loyal to Moon Face, the Shah had reminded himself. There was no truth to their allegation. But when Raven had hugged him, pressed her lips to his ear, and whispered, “Watch Madar. She’s slipped back into her own world,” he had ordered his spies to follow the sultana and the Ancient Zoroastrian. The news that came back had set him on fire.

He abandoned his graveyard of roses and went to the palace to find refuge in Hazel-Boy’s arms.

The Shah tenderly squeezed Hazel-Boy’s organ. “We shall twist her pretty neck until no life is left in her!”

Hazel-Boy walked the Shah’s spine with light fingers. “My lord, Gold Dust is faithful to you. Don’t listen to jealous words.”

This eunuch had a soothing quality to him, suppleness no man possessed and firmness no woman had. It was good to feel his hard penis, the expert touch familiar with his body. He was man and woman in one, without each gender’s complicated intricacies. “You are not with us tonight,” the Shah said, sensing his softening.

“I worry for you, my shah,” Hazel-Boy replied, willing himself to harden in the Shah’s hand. “It’s a conspiracy to eliminate the favorite, then the princess. The two women closest to you.”

Hazel-Boy’s fingers, dipped in salve, grazed the king’s scrotum, slipped down the tight cord and around the shaft. The Shah moaned, struggling to delay his release. He didn’t want to talk about treachery and death. He longed for an hour of rest. The emollient was cool on his shaft, the pressure right. No woman could master him with such precise rhythm. His passion was about to erupt. He must contain himself. At times of anger and sadness he preferred to spill himself in Hazel-Boy. Not in the impersonal vastness of a hand.

His seed flooded the eunuch’s palm.

Hazel-Boy’s lips brushed the Shah’s forehead. “Rest, my king, you will feel better.”

“Stay!” the Shah ordered.

Hazel-Boy rubbed the king with a towel soaked in oil of sandalwood. His mind raced, but his touch was attentive. He did not mind Gold Dust’s love for the acrobat. Long ago, in that opium dream preceding his castration, he had promised himself to help those who found pleasure in each other. His heart lurched at the thought of Gold Dust’s head gaping on a stake above the Courtyard of Horses. Could he beseech the Bibi Sultana’s help? She despised him, but he could use that to Gold Dust’s advantage, argue that without her the king would surrender completely to him.