The city was as flat as a table until the northern suburbs began to rise gently toward the mountains. The line of cars turned in at a large, elaborate gate to grounds on which not just one but several large and not-so-large pal- aces were visible. The driver pointed out the shah’s nephew’s palace and the shah’s mother’s palace. There was no need for him to announce which was the ruler’s own palace: a huge statue of Reza Shah Pahlavi said it for him.

With another flowery speech of welcome, the minister of culture turned them over to a factotum who led them to their rooms on the second floor.

Though the palace was furnished with a richness that far surpassed anything she had seen in al-Remal, it was the artistry of the carpets—hand-woven in classic Persian designs of timeless beauty—that most impressed Amira.

A maid reminded her of the hour of the formal reception that evening. Amira nodded. The reception was her excuse, if she should need one, for bringing along every carat of jewelry she owned. After the servant left, she took out the jewel case and poured the brilliant earrings and bracelets and necklaces on the bed. Karim played with them, making little piles and, from time to time, choosing a particular piece to call “pretty.”

She was in Teheran. In forty-eight hours, she would be in Tabriz. Not long after that, Karim and the jewels might be all she had in the world.

Or maybe nothing would happen in Tabriz. There had been only the one letter from Philippe. Maybe it had all been only talk.

Ah, well—it was in God’s hands. Wasn’t it?

“Pretty,” said Karim, holding up the pigeon-blood ruby that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette.

O

“Caviar, Highness?” said the handsome man with graying temples. He was a minister of something-or-other that had to do with oil.

“No, thank you,” said Amira. The great ceremonial hall on the palace’s ground floor was practically buried in caviar. She must have eaten a half pound already, and she didn’t even like the stuff.