The echo of hooves died behind them. “Gold,” Rebekah said, “I want you to believe in fate, but also remember that it needs a helping hand. That’s all I did today.”

9

Rebekah dug out a clay pot hidden under a bed of straw in the stable. She emptied four coins onto her palm—testimony to years of dinar-pinching to save a dowry for her daughter. Gold Dust would no longer need a dowry. Once Rebekah found a way to penetrate the palace and befriend the eunuch, he would invite Gold Dust into the harem.

The chief eunuch searched for and selected suitable virgins from among whom the Shah chose a few to share his bed. The sultanas lived a comfortable life. A few managed to climb the hierarchy within the harem and amass a fortune by trading opiates and calming herbs with the outside. Could a girl from the Jewish Quarter, the daughter of a whore, become a woman of high rank, like Nakhshe-Del, who, for many years, had ruled the Turkish Empire? What about a girl whose bones played music? There might come a day when she, Rebekah, would knock on the merchant’s door, his servant bowing her in with great respect. She would focus on Rouh’Allah the Spirit of God’s smoky eyes and say, “Remember Gold Dust? She’s a well-known sultana in the Shah’s harem.” Rebekah smiled sadly at yet another fantasy. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she had imagined. Only one thing was certain. No one could hinder a woman who had taken destiny into her hands.

She knelt to tie her bundle before venturing into the city. Feeling a hard object under the fabrics, she sprang back, never knowing what dangerous tricks would be played on her. She picked up the fabrics and gave each a hard shake. The piece of alabaster she had found next to the eunuch’s horse tumbled out. Intricate inscriptions were etched into the stone in a foreign language. Did the rock belong to a building of prayer? Did it have value? She would show it off to her men. She dropped it with the coins into her pocket and mounted Venus.

Rebekah entered the bazaar and called on every stall. In back of their shops, salesmen handed her the fabrics their wives had embroidered in their spare time. She examined the merchandise as she slapped off shameless fingers that crawled up her skirt. Then she vaulted Venus and entered the residential areas, knocking on the door of spinsters and widows, and whispering, “It’s the bundle woman.” She inspected vibrant fabrics, offered from behind half-open doors as if, by hiding their faces, the women would protect their chastity. Rebekah, however, had memorized every telling line on the palms, every brown spot on the hands, every ugly mole on the fingers. When she walked the streets, she was in the habit of first checking people’s hands, and in time she had learned to couple them with their owners.