Gold Dust slowed her steps. She saw the shine of his blue eyes through the slits of his mask and nothing else mattered. She would embrace him. No words. No memories. No poems. No past. Only the urgency of the present. She had contained herself for too long, had heard too many philosophies, too many stories, too many words.

He folded her in his arms, the pressure around her waist urgent but not harsh, firm but not demanding, his eyes comforting torches, and still she recognized that his touch could not wipe out her past, the palace, the king, or Raven.

Rebekah watched her daughter, perched on Venus—Soleiman flanking her on one side, Hazel-Boy on the other—ride into the horizon to the edge of the earth. “Farewell, Moses,” she whispered. “I owe you much more than my daughter’s life.”

A sweet music sailed toward Rebekah, a melody that danced on the wings of the breeze and sent the nightingales into a cheerful chatter. Gold Dust’s bones had healed.

Rebekah raised her finger to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. Wrinkles had formed there. Would she now grow old like everyone else? She raised the burned glove of her hand. The skin had acquired a comforting suppleness. A cool wind fanned her breasts. She parted her vest and glanced down. Would her brand ever fade?

The merchant circled an arm around her shoulders. “Come home with me.”

She stroked the silver hair at his temples. She had always longed to do that. She rubbed her nose against him to take in his scent of ancient Cyprus.

He opened the flaps of his cloak and wrapped her in his warmth.

She crushed her breasts against his chest, against a man who was a true man and who loved her because of what she was. A man for whom her nipples swelled. A man who would help her cast away the curse of her brand, extinguish the flames of her kiln, and smother her memories.

He sighed, “Marry me.”

She allowed herself to relish the moment. She would invite the populace of the Jewish Quarter to hear Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God propose to her. Never again dare call her a whore. Never again splatter her with horse manure. Even the One-Eyed Rabbi would welcome her to his synagogue. She would ride a regal, coal-black stallion into the center of the Quarter—savor the praise tossed at her, the bowed heads, the envious stares. Dealers in the bazaar would compete to sell her fabrics for her personal use. “Does this please your eyes, Khanom Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God? How is your honored husband, my lady?”

She burrowed her nose into the hair on Rouh’Allah’s chest. Yes. He did smell right to her.

TOUCHSTONE READING GROUP GUIDE

Harem