The Bibi Sultana’s eunuch requested an urgent meeting in the privacy of the gardens. “We’ll crush the bark of the tali tree in the favorite’s food.”

The Bibi held on to the branch of a weeping willow, took a deep breath, and slapped him with all the force of her plump hand. “I’ll stuff the bark down your own throat.” Not that she liked that arrogant Jewish pauper. But the girl had succeeded to mesmerize her son so completely he seemed to have abandoned Hazel-Boy, at last. Enough reason to support her until she, the Bibi, came up with a discreet plan to eliminate Hazel-Boy. Did her son think he would produce heirs with that half-man?

When word got around that Honey and Hazel-Boy roamed about with sharpened eyes and ears and threatened to go to the Shah, the sultanas moved their conspiracy to the gardens, under the cloak of darkness, bushes, and maple trees, behind fountains that smothered sounds. The harem lost its tongue but not its rage.

While Gold Dust passed her days and nights under the influence of calming herbs, Moon Face summoned Gulf Lily to the House of Tears to discuss ways to terminate Gold Dust’s pregnancy.

“Ground glass in coffee,” Moon Face whispered. “She’ll bleed internally. There’s no antidote for it.”

Gulf Lily rushed to peek behind the partitions. He pressed a warning forefinger on his lips. My lady, it’s a lengthy, agonizing death. The Shah will find out. He rested his palm on his heart. I worry for you.

Honey tiptoed around, spying on urgent whispering and bickering behind veils. She pressed her ear to the door of a sultana who had once been chosen by luck, circumstance, and cunning to adorn the Shah’s bed. “Henbane or nightshade.” She heard the lethal words.

Honey burst into the room and grabbed the sultana by the hair. “Over my lifeless corpse,” she cried, about to uproot the woman’s braids. “No poison in Gold Dust’s food, or I’m going to the Shah.”

“Who mentioned Gold Dust?” the sultana screeched. “How in heaven did you come to this ludicrous conclusion?”

Honey, her purple lips and black tear trembling with indignation, let go of the woman’s hair.

Despite the threat of Honey, Hazel-Boy, and the Bibi hovering overhead, Gulf Lily and two other eunuchs convened at midnight in the Courtyard of Horses.

The eunuch with skin the color of turmeric offered: “Let’s poison her with white arsenic.”

“No,” the other eunuch, whose bluish lids fluttered nervously, replied, “it leaves a telltale odor on the body.”

“She could trip over the stairs of the Secret Passage.”

“She rarely goes there alone.”

“We could tie her up and yank the fetus out.”

“How do you propose we do that without its seeming a blatant conspiracy?”

“Stop your idle schemes,” the eunuch cried. “If the favorite dies, we’ll all lose our heads.”