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road was beyond anything she had known: the bandits, the monotony, the unrelenting heat, and the terrible cold—these last two often within the same day. Yet every time she returned briefly to the governor’s residence in Kulja, by the next day she was already preparing to set out again.
    She was no more truly free than a kite, but still, it was the most freedom she had ever known. Except . . . when the young girl who was not even allowed to venture into the streets of Peking had dreamed of the outside world, she had not thought it would be so lonely.
    Was that why she kept delaying the hour she rid herself of the Persian, because no one else ever wished to accompany the prickly traveler that she was?
    At the end of their meal, he rose to do the washing up. She stared at the hem of his robe, golden in the firelight, strangely fascinated by its billow and swirl, which accentuated the fluidity of his every movement.
    When he was done, he sat down on the opposite side of the fire and fed it another handful of broken branches. “What do you do in the evenings, my friend?”
    She performed her breathing exercises and practiced withher blades and her hidden weapons—Lin could find her at any moment and she desperately needed to be as accomplished as he to have a chance to surviving their encounter. “I study the fires I make.”
    “You never stay at inns?”
    Most inns she came across were not luxurious establishments. And even if she fancied sharing a room with a half dozen men, she wouldn’t, for the simple fact that in the wilderness she could see Lin coming from miles away, but in more civilized surroundings she might not have any warning until it was too late.
    “They have fleas.”
    Again that smile, again that delight: He found her company, which she would rate as questionable at best, a first-rate pleasure. She could not understand his reasons, but she could not deny that his smile was warm and gorgeous.
    “And of course my friend is fastidious,” he said, his tone plainly teasing. “I can tell from your attire.”
    She was half annoyed and half amused that she, who truly was rather fastidious—or at least used to be—should be going around clad in such rags.
    “What do you know of good fabric? This is made from the wool of the frost sheep, which graze on the highest slopes of the Heavenly Mountains.”
    “And only wool from the first shearing of virgin ewes, of course. Am I correct?”
    Now he was openly making fun of her. She thought about brandishing her knife in a show of force, but she actually did not mind being called out good-naturedly when she was just making things up.
    “My sword is forged from the adamantine remains of a meteor that fell to earth,” she said.
    “And Allah the great and merciful plucked stars from the night sky for your eyes, I do not doubt—your very manly eyes, that is.”
    She had to make an effort not to smile.
    He leaned forward slightly. “Would you like to hear a story?”
    She’d never had such an offer in her life. “As long as it is not about my manly, starry eyes.”
    “No, but it does have thieves.”
    She stretched out her hands to the fire. “Go ahead.”
    And so he told her the strange and wonderful “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” He had a raconteur’s voice, rich and seductive. When he described the cave, she could see the glow thrown off by the treasures and hear the trickle of the coins as they fell off too-high heaps in golden rivulets.
    She gazed at him as he spun his tale. It had been a very long time since anyone took the trouble to entertain her, or even cared whether she enjoyed herself. But the Persian cared: It was as if he sensed not only her hunger for the outside world, not only her desire for a thrilling narrative that culminated in a satisfying outcome, but also her deep-seated need to know that such a happy ending could be made possible by the efforts of a woman. For though Ali Baba and the thieves were named in the title of the tale,