The spell of her dancing—the roll of her hips, the sweep of gossamer around her body—lingered in the atmosphere and roused a more potent scent. She listened to the silence. Had her dancing captivated him? Was this the stillness of respect, reverence, maybe even awe?

She evoked an image to suit his voice and his silences. The screens and stone carvings painted a monstrous portrait, but in his love for roses, for Pari, and in his attentive quiet, she found a man who would care.

The eunuch came to lead her back to the harem. She snatched her arm away and planted herself in the center of the hall. “My shah! Allow me the honor of beholding your face!”

The once cherished silence left a mocking ring in her bones. Had he been absent while she poured her heart out? No, he was here. His scent had intensified with her performance and had produced a mild state of drunkenness in her. She launched into a fiery performance. She would force him to acknowledge her. The degrading shadows were unbearable. She had had enough of her mother’s phantom-men.

He would hear her bones.

Yes, it was time.

She would release her soul into that room, lure the king out of hiding, and see for herself that he was pale-skinned and blue-eyed.

She fought to calm herself and evoke happy memories: her mother shimmered in her glass-studded chador, on the Purim holiday of masques, riding Venus, decked with the crown of scarlet feathers. And Soleiman, her copper-haired acrobat, offered her cherry blossoms.

A tinkling sensation spread through her body. Warmth permeated her marrow.

She drew a deep breath and let out her emotions.

A dissonant chorus burst from her. A world of warring notes collided, jarred her ears, hurt her heart. Her bones had shamed her. She bowed a hasty farewell and turned toward the exit, struggling to slow her steps, hold on to her dignity.

A moan came from behind a screen. A sigh. She hesitated, stopped, but did not turn around. She heard his breathing. The beat of his heart. And then she heard his voice:

“It was lovely.”

Late that evening, when the pungent vapor of opium hung over Pearl Hall and the slaves nudged the sultanas out of their dreams, Gold Dust asked, “Why does the Shah hide behind partitions?”

Shifting away from the ever-present shadow of Gulf Lily, Moon Face raised eyelids afflicted with lethargy. “Because of some curious disease of the spirit, he concocts childish games to raise himself beyond the habitual languor of the Cage. It’s his private titillation. As if he collects, one by one, the notes for some complicated music he’ll play when he’s ready. And even then, he’ll play it only once. No one knows who the next victim is.”

Gold Dust shuddered. “Why do you call yourselves victims? Why do you leave him with the taste of honey that turns to ash?”