He set a stone mortar and pestle on the carpet. From the pockets of his pants, he took three pouches and emptied them into the bowl: the brains of seven serpents, the yolks of seven ostrich eggs, and dried camel dung mixed with human urine. He crushed them with the pestle, sniffing the concoction until the odor convinced him the mixture was ready. Circling Gold Dust’s divan, he smeared the blend under her mattress. He closed his eyes and summoned the black spirits.

Gold Dust wrapped her arms about her stomach as if to shield her child. In his deep stupor, the eunuch did not hear her sigh contentedly.

He muttered incantations, feeling weightless, the beat in his arteries vigorous, the flow of blood refreshing. The room was awash in colors—the emerald necklace on the dressing table, the strands of pearls, the silver perfume bottle, the black roses enveloped by ethereal shades.

He looked down at her. He drew his scimitar out of the scabbard. A golden moonbeam tumbled on her face. A content smile parted her lips. The veins at her neck throbbed. The shadow of his raised hand fell on the velvet drapes. The blade flashed in the moonlight.

With one quick blow, he severed one of her long tresses.

At the stroke of midnight, in the Courtyard of Horses, he rose to his full height and lifted his hands up to the roaming clouds. A black rooster dangled from his hands. His fingers seized the bird by the throat, choking its cry. The cock had never crossed a hen, so its masculine vigor would not be wasted. Once the force sealed in the rooster was released, it could stir any curse to life. He held the live rooster above his head, and with his bare hands tore the rooster in half. He voiced the ultimate curse:

“May the child be born a girl.”

The Great Black Eunuch stole out, calling back the words he had memorized from his book of necromancy: Thou shall acquire a strand of hair from the head of thy foe and burn it in the Altar of the Jinns. If that foe has powerful allies who are aware of the dark secrets of magic, thou shall burn the hair in flames that rise in the proximity of that person’s lodging, wherein he has lived for many years and where his heart lies. As the smoke rises and turns to clouds, so, too, the powers of your opponent and his allies will forever turn into the smoke of nothingness.

Narcissus rushed past the palace gates and through the narrow alleys, toward the small house with the warm bed and sultry scent of life. For the first time he entered the Jewish Quarter at night. He felt the strand of hair in his pocket. The fire should belong to the foe’s protector, his book had warned. Rebekah had a kiln she refused to light even when tears froze. Did she have a wood-burner in her kitchen? Would a lantern, a candle, an oil burner suffice?