Rebekah’s laughter lingered in the mist as Venus disappeared around the corner.

She checked herself, sniffed between her breasts, under her arms. The chador had saved her attire.

“What is a whore?” Gold Dust asked, resting her cheek against her mother’s back. Of course she knew. But even at her young age, she had learned to plead ignorance and save her mother embarrassment.

“A whore is a woman who has the honor to sacrifice her body and soul for the comfort of her child,” Rebekah replied, kicking the animal into a canter.

At the end of the narrow alley, they faced steps, flanked by pots of jasmine, that led down to the merchant’s residence.

To Gold Dust, the rust-colored house seemed plucked out of her mother’s many tales—a spacious castle, with lace-draped windows, behind which hid a mysterious world she could not even begin to fathom.

Rebekah counted six cherry trees away from the merchant’s house and tied Venus to the trunk of the seventh. She hoped the animal was far enough not to offend the elegant landscape. She untied her bundle and removed a simple black chador she had borrowed for the occasion. She spread the veil over her head and her glittering clothes. In the alabaster of her face, her eyes were scintillating worry-jewels. She had come to offer her daughter to the altar of men, to power and wealth, to one of the few who had raised a scholar in this bleak place. She had come to offer her daughter to the only boy who deserved her. Would he, one day, redeem in her eyes this monstrous alliance referred to as marriage?

Gold Dust frowned, exaggerating the dimple in her chin. “When you have that look, something goes wrong. I’m coming with you.”

“Have I taught you nothing?” Rebekah said. “Behave like a lady of substance. You’ll enter with appropriate pomp and elegance after you’ve been invited.” She whirled around and started down the path, certain she had made the right choice in bringing her daughter along. If all went well, she wanted her nearby.

Gold Dust’s gaze followed her mother’s retreating back. She slumped under a cherry tree. The ground was dotted with the plump fruit. Gathering a handful, she tied the stems to weave an anklet. The music of the acrobats was nearing. She could walk to the end of the alley and return before her mother missed her. Gold Dust laced the cherries around her ankle, lifted herself, and dusted her skirt. She followed the music, counting the trees, so she could find her way back.

Not far from the main street, the acrobats skipped around; the son, perched on his father’s shoulders, played the tambourine.

Gold Dust raised her gaze to him and her child-heart exploded in her chest. His complexion was so fair and his eyes so blue, she mistook him for one of the angels in her mother’s tales. His copper-colored curls and dazzling smile and the music at the tip of his fingers shattered her heart further.