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instinctively. Now her arms circle my neck, and her face nuzzles in the hollow of my throat. “Carry me to safety.”
    I have never touched an adult woman who was not in my family. My arms burn with energy. “Who?” My voice catches on the single word.
    â€œWho?” she echoes, her lips moving against my neck. “Do you mean who am I?”
    I had meant who was her attacker, but now I can see that I should have had compassion for the victim, not just rage for the criminal. Shame reduces me, makes me compliant. I stand, holding her in my arms like a small child. “Who are you?” I say as gently as I can.
    â€œZanejadu,” she breathes. Her breath is roses. Her voice is harps. Her name is familiar.
    Zanejadu.
    I look down at this woman curled against my chest and try to place her name.
    She sighs and arches slightly.
    I glimpse the curve of her breast, a hint of black. My head feels light. I cannot think straight, I cannot take my eyes from her flesh. This is the effect of fasting, I’m sure. The skin of her hand on my neck is thick as rose flesh — as gule sourkh. This is dream.
    But the pulse in my temples is loud and real. Temptation must be fought. I should pray, but I cannot even make the rakatha, for I cannot put down this unfortunate woman.
    Where is my faith? Oh, that the basic principles should recount themselves, permeating my being.
    Nothing enters my head.
    My groin throbs.
    Let me find that rage that consumed me only moments ago. “Who did this to you?”
    â€œOrasmyn,” she whispers. “The prince.”
    â€œI am Orasmyn,” I say stupidly.
    She is kissing my neck. “You did this. You.”
    â€œI did what, Zanejadu?” Zanejadu! The sorceress pari who tried to seduce the heroes Isfandiyar and Rustam. I drop her. “Wicked pari , you would trap me now.”
    â€œFoolish prince,” she says with a sneer, “you are already trapped.”
    â€œI’ll get free.”
    â€œWith your fathers plan?”
    Did she follow me to the mosque? Was she perhaps one of the ants feeding on the dead scorpion, listening as we talked? “It is my plan, not Father’s, and it will work.”
    â€œProud, stupid Orasmyn. Jumail was a she-camel. Only a woman’s love can undo the curse. And no woman will ever love you.”
    â€œMy mother loves me.”
    The pari laughs and gives a little yank to my beard. “You know the love I mean. Your skin trembled under my kiss.”
    I turn and run. Rose thorns stab through my feet, but I run fast. I look over my shoulder. She is gone, vision of iniquity, yet she lingers, she coats me. I run as though for my life, I run, and . . .
    SLAM.

PART 2
Strange Life

CHAPTER FIVE
Blood
    S omething crawls across my cheek. Delicate. It hesitates, then crawls again. I feel it lightly, strangely, as though it walks from hair to hair. Six legs. How extraordinary, that I can detect six legs. It crawls toward my open mouth. I jerk my head.
    That didn’t feel right. My head is heavy. A huge, doughy lump.
    The insect is gone. I open my eyes. Clouds thinly veil the moon. Slowly the form of leaves darkens against the night air. I am outside. The perfume in the air tells all: I am in the rose garden.
    Memory strains, but no recollection comes. Only the sense that I shouldn’t be here, a vague worry I cannot understand.
    My skin crawls as though I’m blanketed in insects.
    I roll onto my stomach. My whole body is heavy.Exhaustion closes my eyes. It makes no sense to fight it. The servants will come looking for me soon enough.
    I surrender myself to sleep.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    A crow caws loudly. A crow’s caw is a prayer to the Merciful One.
    I open my eyes to the haze of predawn. Dawn comes! Soon the imam’s helper will call out the adhan for morning prayer. Memory returns like a desert wind that would steal the breath from every living creature. Everyone in