tairs of tyard gate I found myself beside or Master Osman. e  a loss for range and tense moment. One of to cry and sob, and someone pompously sed, “God is great.”

    “to er Osman asked me for thing.

    to respond “I don’t knoered, and  the

    same question of tanding next to me on tairs, “to e?”

    “Eyüp,” said an ill-tempered, bearded and young dolt.

    “Eyüp,” I said turning to ter, but  tempered dolt  me as if to say, “I understand” in a  let me kno our encounter to last a moment longer t already had.

    it mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s groerest in Frankisyles of painting, Master Osman  Our Sultan o oversee ting out, embellis and illustration of ted manuscript, an forced t Master Osman to copy a portrait of ian. I knoer Osman o imitate t painter, for o make t strange painting, o torture.” ified.

    Standing in taircase for a  I’d been left quite beinued doairs. I’d barely descended—ever so sloeps he arm and embraced me: Black.

    “t be cold.”

    I  test doubt t took my arm tom of tairs, I told  I’d expect an account later of he workshop.

    “You go aco tion.”

    aken aback, but didn’t let on. t go of my arm ion and h us?

    e’d left ty te. I sao trators, calligrapices s as to, traveled  led doo Eyüp. In t fog, off to t, tan Cy candleanneries and tling slaug served tced over tended to ts cypress-lined cemetery. After er in

    Balat.

    ed, Butterfly approacly broac:

    “Olive and Stork are ty,” ionsy and