legend  time, srembling ation on t as a  to Our Sultan ed ths hence.

    Sly a silence enveloped to eigers, students and apprentices ituted tbeating silence, times; a silence imes by a nerve-icism, at times by a feen boy before  er miniaturists of tings tices. But ty-ter caused me to sense somet, tles and turmoil: t everyto an end. Immediately before there would also be such silence.

    Painting is t and t.

    As I kissed Master Osman’s o bid  not only great respect toiment t plunged my soul into turmoil: pity mixed ion befitting a saint, a peculiar feeling of guilt. te—ers, openly or secretly, to imitate ters—was his rival.

    I suddenly sensed, as  I er alive for t time, and in ter of ing to please and en ion:

    “My great master, my dear sir, es turist from tor, o sucions,  ly in t of forgetting her.

    “t can distinguis miniaturist from time. Yet ty  ten our art are of significance. today, in order to determine just er is, I’d ask ions.”

    “And hey be?”

    “o believe, under t custom as   to ing tecyle? As an illustrator, does  to  distinct from ottempt to prove ters? to determine precisely t ask ion about ”style“ and ”signature.““

    “And tfully.

    “t to learn rator felt about volumes cures being used in oter tans  or pleased by it. trator a question about ”time“—an illustrator’s time and Allaime. Do you follow me, my child?”

    Nay. But t’s not ead, I asked, “And tion?”

    “t master or Osman, ion.

    “ is it about ”bl