At once, the merchant returned to a relaxed posture and threw one leg over the other. “I promise to do whatever is in my power to facilitate your wishes.”

“I’ve come to ask for the hand of your son, Ebrahim, for my daughter, Gold Dust.”

Rouh’Allah sat motionless. Blood drained from his face. He counted every onyx prayer bead as it slid down the thread, gathered in his palm, and coiled like a snake. He rose to his feet, patted the hair at his temples, struggled to comprehend.

“Agha, allow me an explanation. After months of thought, I’ve realized that Ebrahim and Gold Dust are meant for each other.”

He looked down at Rebekah; his eyes turned dark, grappling with the shock of having to shift his emotions, of having to unravel the anger that took him by surprise. He had high hopes for his son. He had chosen his bride, the daughter of the only judge of the Jewish Quarter who argued legal matter in the royal court, and who had the power to facilitate Ebrahim’s entrance to the single reputable university in Persia. Suddenly, he was irritated by this woman, who, even now, her lashes shadowing her flushed cheeks, mesmerized him.

Rebekah raised her head slightly toward the man. He was pale. “I know all about your son,” she whispered above the lump in her throat. “He is young, educated, handsome. But you’ve never heard of my daughter’s merits. Although, to my great chagrin, I’m sure you’ve heard about me.”

He waved his hand as if the subject was inconsequential. The glass clink of his beads continued. A pool of black tears piled in his palm.

Rebekah stole her gaze from his furious fingers. “I’ve been tossed into this profession because of a past molded for me by my mother and husband when I was a child. When I opened my eyes, it was too late. Ill reputation sprouts like weeds but is hard to discard. So I took charge of my life and saved for a respectable dowry for Gold Dust. But I’m not here to talk about money. I’ve come to tell you of my daughter’s merits, which few girls have. She is beautiful, intelligent, artistic. At the age of eleven, she cooks, sews, keeps a house. She’s the only literate girl in the Quarter. She recites poetry. She studies the lives of warriors and knows the ways of men.” Rebekah stopped to give importance to her next announcement:

“And her bones create heavenly melodies.”

Her gaze was unwavering. Her hands no longer shook. Her voice was strong. “Her husband won’t need to guess her moods. The music of her marrow will reveal her innermost feelings.”

The merchant let out his breath. Despair replaced his anger. He murmured as if to himself, “How fascinating, how utterly celestial. What a lucky man her husband will be. To unravel the feelings of a woman.”