Gold Dust’s body jerked toward her mother. Lines had etched themselves around her mouth. Gold Dust was familiar with that unwavering look. Now even fate could not deter her.

Rebekah refused to be intimidated by the eunuch’s huffing and puffing and petulant waving, which sent his stomach into a quiver. Although aware of his tremendous power, she was also aware of the terrible sexual cravings he struggled with. “I’ll offer all of myself at your feet, Narcissus,” she whispered.

He examined Gold Dust. Her complexion was too rosy and her hair cut too short. Her left nostril flared more than the right, giving her an arrogance reserved for dignified spiritualists like himself. Reluctantly, he confessed to himself that he liked her amber eyes but not the twist in her left one, which made him think she stared at a distance beyond his reach. The dimple in her chin was quite charming and so was her seductive stubbornness. But what fascinated him most about this girl was the mysterious, sporadic hum of disapproval that seemed to emanate from the vicinity of her body.

He gazed at her uncovered face. Which group of sultanas would she fit into? The harem was suffocating with women of all sizes and temperaments. But as hard as he tried, this girl defied categorization. Might that not save him from his predicament?

For some time now, sameness, a horrid flatness, had crept into the Shah’s life. He had been noticing the Shah’s glazed stares, the many nights he passed alone, and the absence of gifts he used to send as a token of gratitude for the girls he, Narcissus, chose. The Shah was ready for a change.

“She is not beautiful,” Narcissus muttered, “and she has not inherited your voluptuous hips.”

No, Rebekah thought, and she might never learn to stir to life the dead emotions of a eunuch. “Stay here, Gold,” she ordered, the glare in her eyes stopping her daughter. “I’ll be back.” Then she lifted the fine gauze from her face and asked Narcissus if he would show her his private quarters. Her arm hugged the eunuch’s soft shoulders. “Narcissus, please call for someone to watch over Gold Dust until we return.”

Narcissus felt Rebekah’s hand melt into his flesh, her breath warm his lungs. Her smell tasted of honey and molasses. He clapped his hands.

A girl of eighteen appeared and stood with bowed head, her long lashes brushing anemic cheeks. Gold Dust pinched her nostrils shut. The palace exuded the musky odor of mold and age. The Shah was everywhere, baked into glazed tiles, engraved on porphyry and malachite columns, in combat with man and beast, wielding the spear, bashing a head, or hoisting a scimitar. His face was brutal and distorted. His stone eyes followed her. She glanced at the girl’s colorless complexion, her eyes the shade of water, her lips drained of blood.

“Is this the true likeness of the Shah?” Gold Dust asked.