been as taken as I was now.

    treasury co brigifully dra arm branded  noy before I  blind.  kno I could suition of mine o me  t somet of my mouth.

    “Be’s Bihzad.”

    My  of its oo  -skinned, beautiful apprentice boys, eace and broad, and I . ake an apprentice co my palm and, before telling o ion into , frig’s  Black. Reflected in . “e miniaturists are bret noo an end.”

    “how do you mean?”

    I said, “Everyto an end” like a great master erpieces in yle of ts,  ts oyle, a great master tle, t neear apart bound volumes leaving ttle and destroy ails t  o explain to Black differently.

    “tration is of t Poet Abdullaifi,” I said. “ifi  t ayed  and toadied up to Ser took . In response, S all to skirts of ty to see ifi, not from Biifi’s face, but from ting beneatration, don’t we?”

    Black looked at me, indicating “yes” ty eyes. “ t in the

    painting,” I said, “ it could be a face like any otifi ion in its entirety: tion, in ifi’s pose, in tunning er Bi at once indicates ture is of a poet. Meaning precedes form in t. As o paint in imitation of tian masters, as in t Our Sultan e, tian methods…”

    “My Enis in eternal peace, was murdered,” Black said rudely.

    I caressed Black’s ed fully stroking tiny ice rate masterpieces. Quietly and reverently  Bierpiece for a time. Later, Black hdrew his hand from mine.

    “e passed quickly over tnut  examining their noses,” he said.

    “to turned back to t see for raordinary about trils of th