Gold Dust succumbed to the Shah’s mother. Let the Bibi deck her as if she were a roasted lamb in need of garnish. When the time came, she would seduce the king with her own music.

The Bibi dipped the larger brush into the henna mixture and first dyed Gold Dust’s pubis and four fingers’ length above it, then the armpits. With the smaller brush, she painted her toes and fingernails, a jasmine above her navel, three even rings around her nipples, a beauty mark at the upper corner of her lips. The Bibi stepped back and eyed her creation. For the next forty days not even the strongest soap could wash off her work of art. She clicked her tongue, snapped her fingers, and smeared the residue of the henna on her own pubis.

Slaves balanced embroidered napkins and fresh towels on their heads and led Gold Dust past a vestibule and a series of warm rooms into the resting chamber. Curious women smoked water pipes, sipped gardenia sherbet, and nibbled slices of melon.

Gold Dust, her hair piled on top of her head to dislodge the last drops of water, lounged on cushions. She settled into muslin fragrant with essence of jasmine, gazed at wooden sandals that sank into Persian rugs, at gilded hangings encrusted with pearls, and dreamed of the sanctuary with a stable in the back housing a donkey that spat at anyone who dared stare at his mistress.

Moon Face sat cross-legged at the head of the chamber, stared at Gold Dust, and yanked at her own tresses.

15

Rebekah the Bundle Woman came to visit. The palace gates creaked. Halls were solemn. Specters lingered in the shadows. Narcissus averted his eyes. She planted her hands at her waist and cocked her head. “Not even a welcome peck on the cheek, sweetlove?”

He flung the inner doors open.

Under the domed arch, she held him back and gazed at his plump cheeks and raisin eyes. “What? Not a kind word?”

“Gold Dust turned all the sultanas against her,” he said, stifling in his throat a cackle of joy.

Rebekah’s heart died. Not her Gold. She had taught her to spread her net, to gather it with silver rings and hold on to her prey, to use sweet words to conceal her anger, and to master the music of her bones. Rebekah clutched the eunuch’s sleeves. “You promised to take care of her.”

“You’re too good a tutor,” he murmured, a tinge of resentment in his voice. “You don’t need my help.”

Rebekah glared at him. “If anything happens to my daughter, I’ll pull out your guts and feed them to the vultures … your lust gland will go first.”