The servant pushed her from the entrance and tried to shut the door. If only she had saved a handful of manure to smear on his indignant face, she thought, her bare foot preventing the door from closing. Only the deep flush of her cheeks betrayed the pain in her toes.

She cupped her mouth with her hands and turned toward the neighborhood. She would lure every wealthy man out of his sanctuary, every pampered woman from her lofty throne, force them to acknowledge parts of the Quarter they preferred to ignore, acknowledge Rebekah the Whore at the merchant’s doorstep. “Your Honor, I’ll not leave until—”

The merchant appeared at the end of the hall. He stood tall, chestnut hair brushed behind his ears. A cape of camel’s wool with ruby trim draped his shoulders. A chain of onyx worry beads wrapped twice around his right wrist. He clapped his hands, the sound hardly audible. The servant hurried toward him.

The murmur of the merchant’s order and the servant’s protests reached Rebekah; she pressed the back of her hand to her lips to blot off cherry unguent. With a fingertip, she rubbed off excess kohl from the rims of her lashes. She checked to make sure her vest was fully buttoned.

The servant bowed her in, leading her into the formal area. She lowered herself onto a divan pointed out to her and adjusted her veil to cover the curls she was in the habit of flaunting. She congratulated herself It had not been that difficult after all. None other than the master himself had received her with respect. But why? Why had he allowed her into his home without the slightest questioning? At the thought that he might have invited her out of charity, the translucent skin of her right fingers shrank. The merchant reached for her hand.

Moisture fused her palm to his.

His gray eyes lingered on her lips, bosom, bare toes. His gaze swept the length of her body. “I am Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God.”

His voice overwhelmed and unraveled her, caused her immense hopelessness. An honest and candid tone. Intimate. Even considerate. A deep respect evident, despite her occupation. The ring echoed in her ears in the ensuing quiet.

She formed words with her lips, but her voice lost its way in her throat. She hurried to her feet. “So kind of you, Your Honor …”

“Dear lady.” He held her disfigured hand. “Please don’t stand on ceremony with me. I know you well.”

She had a strange premonition that if she opened her mouth she would blurt: I am Rebekah, Your Honor, Rebekah the Whore. No. She might softly whisper: I am Rebekah, Your Honor, an honorable whore. Would this voice that made her shiver and want to spill out the secrets of her life whisper back: An honorable woman, my dear, in fact a desirable woman?