tself and God. Master Osman is more to me.”

    “ould  you often?” he asked.

    “In t me e sense of justice; as a master,  me painfully so t I mig. to tter and faster t grab me by my  tice, I’d never spill paint, never e akes of ter limner, clean my brustention and spirit on talent and mastery to tings I received, I, in turn, beat my oices

    a guilty conscience. ’s more, I kno even a beating given  just cause, if it doesn’t break t of tice, imately benefit him.”

    “Even so, you understand t ice, no carried a, and you kno Master Osman probably experienced tion  you?”

    “Sometimes ake a marble burnisone and strike me  my ear imes  for inual tears to my eyes. I s, yet I still love my mentor.”

    “Nay,” said Black, “you ook revenge for t silently accumulated deep rations for my Enisation book.”

    “te is true. tings t a young miniaturist receives from er bind o er  until the day he dies.”

    “treacting of ts of Iraj and Siyavuso me, arose out of sibling rivalry, and sibling rivalry, as in t father.”

    “true.”

    “t fater miniaturists, t you at eacs, is noo betray you,”  is cutting,”  longer. t on, “true, cutting my t and spilling my blood like a sacrificial lamb  tant, but if you do t listening to  to explain—I don’t t anyo say. Please, move tly.” I did so. “Master Osman, calent bloom into artistry like a spring floyle, to wed ire life.”

    “I recounted to you t Effendi so you miging tyle“ truly is.”

    “tories pertained to a mi