He vaulted into the air, somersaulted once, twice, and settled at her feet like a cat. His hands skipped on his tambourine and his toes on the ground as he danced in circles around her. She saw the tambourine flip high into the air, spin and twirl, then swoop down and encircle her like a musical embrace. Kneeling, he drew a sword, tied with a golden rope around his waist, and with the tip severed her cherry anklet and dropped it into his pocket.

He frolicked around a cherry tree, cut off a branch, genuflected, and held it up to her. “Your eternal servant, Soleiman the Agile.”

“Gold Dust,” she whispered.

“A beautiful and becoming name, my lady. I shall remember Gold Dust as long as I live.”

“Someday I’ll marry you!” she blurted out, hugging his gift and running away, stunned at her audacity and at the ridiculous words that had tumbled out of her mouth.

Rebekah tucked her stray hair inside her chador and wished she had a mirror to check herself. Maybe this was not the right time to visit the merchant. What if he personally came to the door? She might lose her bearing if she came face-to-face with the grand man without the proper introduction from a servant.

She held her veil tightly under her chin and started down the sand-covered steps. Horrified, she stared at the imprint of FOLLOW ME the soles of her sandals had embossed on the sand. She removed the sandals and concealed them under one of the jasmine pots. She fought the urge to turn back, forget her absurd plan, her bare feet, her daughter.

Her daughter!

Racing up and down the stairs, she wiped the imprints off with her feet.

At the door, she raised her knuckles. Stealing her hand away, she pressed her palm to the brand between her breasts. In an ancient act of prayer she had thought forgotten, she brought her hand up to her face, creating a dome with her five fingers. She only knew how to pray to herself.

Her knuckles drummed too hard on the oak-wood door. Before she had composed herself, the door opened. She came face-to-face with a servant, shaven head reflecting the sunlight, arms folded against his chest. A look she knew too well darkened his eyes.

She locked her fingers and struggled to control the habitual cooing that threatened to creep into her tone. “Honorable Agha, may I talk to the master of the house?”

“His Honor is not available.” The servant stepped back, indicating he expected her to remove herself from the threshold.

From her vantage, the hall behind the servant seemed endless. Costly Kashan rugs and columns of alabaster flanked the doors at both sides of the corridor. “Your Honor!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “I am Rebekah, the wife of the late Jacob the Blacksmith. I am here to see you!”