Gold Dust did not need to be reminded. Early in her life, she had learned that men left behind dim memories that did not fade with time—her mother’s men did, the man with the smell of iron did. But he had left behind more than faint memories. He had left behind a kiln her mother refused to ignite and a male donkey she had named Venus. “To spite Jacob!” she had replied one of the few times she was inclined to answer. “To prove that even his donkey has no balls.”

“Who was he?” Gold Dust had asked.

Her mother evaded the question as if the words were vapors that, if left unattended, would evaporate.

Rebekah twirled a strand of her daughter’s hair around her finger. “Gold, fall in love with yourself. Demand the world as your right. Take advantage of your singing body. And don’t give yourself easily, or you’ll lose respect.”

Gold Dust felt pride. Her mother was initiating her into womanhood. Imitating Rebekah, she stroked her breasts, flicked her hair back, and slid her tongue over her lips. “Madar,” she whispered, “if it’ll make you happy, even if he’s a dark man and locks his women in a cage, for you, I’ll marry the Shah.”

The Shah?! Gold Dust had uttered the name as if she would settle for no less. The Shah! Not even in Rebekah’s loftiest dreams had she considered the king himself for her daughter. Rebekah tried to chase the thought away. It was madness enough to wish her Jewish daughter to join the harem. Grand ambitions, Rebekah knew, would only reduce her to a bitter woman. She repeated the Shah’s name as she stared at her daughter.

Gold Dust was not beautiful in the conventional way. Her features were not perfect. But the whole worked so well one rarely noticed her wandering left eye or the slight flare of one nostril. Her coffee-colored hair framed high cheekbones and flattered her amber eyes. She had pale skin and angry cheeks that flamed with her emotions. Her wandering eye added mystery to the ripe look she had mastered. She had the allure and expansive laughter of a woman and the innocence and questioning glance of a child. Her words concealed the doubts of a child, but the language of her body, the slight tremble of her buttocks, the thrust of her budding breasts, and her dancing gait were those of a woman.

She would be irresistible to a man who had perfection flung at his feet.

The Shah?

The name roamed the labyrinths of Rebekah’s mind and settled in her heart.

Why not?

Why not break the confining walls of convention her ancestors had raised around her? Why not let her ambitions soar?

She dried her eyes. A hardness framed her profile.

“Rebekah’s daughter will become queen!”