He caught her hands and whispered, “Water is healing. Come in.”

He helped her into the bath. The morning sun had warmed the enamel and it felt pleasant against her body, which had ached with desire a short while ago, but was now sore with anger.

“We will resist each other until we can’t bear it any longer.”

In the wild splashing of water and against hard enamel, they wrestled savagely in what was more like war than love. Limbs and arms flailed, locked, and freed to resist again. She fought with all the might of her shaken pride.

“Sometimes he’ll make love to you,” Hazel-Boy said. “And sometimes he’ll prefer to wrestle with you before he enters you.”

“Have you experienced the Shah’s touch?” she whispered, coloring with shame. “Did it bring the taste of ash into your mouth?”

“Don’t ask dangerous questions,” he groaned, slipping his fingers around her sex.

The forbidden honed their passion. All faded but the desire to please. By some magical harmony, they experienced release at the same time. He had broken his oath and he did not mind. His secret would be safe with a daughter who had inherited her mother’s convictions. They lay back exhausted. Pinpoints of light burst on the ripples around them. Their breathing calmed. The water settled.

“You are strong and graceful and proud,” he murmured. “The king will love you.”

The scent of spring in the air, slaves filled the baths with rainwater, rubbed and kneaded the sultanas’ bodies with warm oils, and sprinkled their garments with jasmine and orange blossoms. The women left their quarters earlier than usual. It was the first day of spring, the New Year, and they were about to partake in an ancient drinking ritual. Colorful sherbets of fruit, essence of gardenia, or chamomile, perfumed with musk, ambergris, or aloes, shimmered in glasses with filigreed casings. Wrapped in flannel and carried on seventy mules, the sacred snow in the sherbets came from the great ice pits of Mount Damavand and had traveled for two months and six days to reach the harem. Since taste was first transmitted through the fingertips, all sultanas were trained to perform this ritual with grace and delicacy, using three fingers and hardly getting them soiled. Dipping separately each fingertip in the sherbets of eternal youth, they sucked on them, every move a skillful dance of precision. The right hand was used for food, the left for impure tasks. Later slaves delivered pitchers and basins for ablution.

This was Gold Dust’s favorite ritual, reminding her of the days she had stolen into her mother’s side of the room and inhaled her perfumes, the days before the scent of ice flowers brought bile to her mouth.

Now she felt proud; not only had Hazel-Boy tutored her, but she had gone through today’s ceremony without a single discordant move.

The partitions were flung open. In a pompous procession, the Bibi strode in, accompanied by Narcissus and the Mistress of the House.