She went out to the garden and pulled out the weeds that populated what she thought had once been a rose garden. Was this Pari’s garden? Plucking a rose, she sniffed the dried bud that had survived the elements. Ice flowers. Time had extracted the natural scent of the rose and had left an essence that smelled of ice flowers. Her stomach revolted at the recollection of the perfume her mother kept at her bedside, at the memory, now altered by time, of the men falling on top of her mother, crushing her with their weight.

She shut her eyes and imagined the Shah appearing, roaring with anger, the men fleeing. The king reached out to the girl hiding behind a flap of cloth and led her out of the Jewish Quarter, away from the dark-faced men.

Gold Dust lay out on the verandah, baring her breasts to the sun. She envisioned the man who had loved Pari, who had bathed her in a jewel-studded tub, and who had fled to his falcons to share the grief of her loss.

A shadow fell over her. She started up. Grabbing her veil, she prostrated herself, kissing the floor in front of the man who observed her with interest.

“You need not do this,” he said, raising her gently from the shoulders. His fragile features were sculpted to perfection. Silver curls fell from the borders of his cone-shaped hat. He had a light complexion and green eyes. A miniature silver bottle hung from a chain around his neck. He lifted her chador and wrapped it around her breasts. “For once,” he said, “they were right. You are stunning.”

Why hadn’t any of the sultanas ever disclosed how beautiful the Shah was, that the color of his skin was lighter than ivory, and his eyes deeper than emerald? Their jealousy was beyond comprehension. Her anticipating heart fluttered. This man was not weary of life. He had the curious eyes of children and the considerate tone of men who care.

But he was so young. She began to calculate in her mind the years since the Shah had been locked in the Cage. He must be past thirty. The man in front of her was not much older than herself. She stared at his hairless face with no shadow of a beard. A face as smooth as a eunuch’s. But he was too slim to be one of the sexless who directed their bitterness into eating, and he was too refined in his manners and attire.

He raised her chin with two tapered fingers. “Your restless eyes tell me you’ll be an astute student.”

“I’ve been trained in palace etiquette.”

“But not in the erotic arts,” he replied, brushing a palm against her cheek. “Nor in the art of the intimate chambers.”

“Who are you?” she whispered, as if in the presence of a deity.

“I’m Hazel-Boy, the man in the stories you heard. I spent my youth in the Cage with the Shah, and I continue to serve him.” He toyed with the silver bottle.