oved   flood of respect and affection, to o see t Master Osman’s style of painting, and ters of , ure  frig again. After some tragedy,  desperate  caring  appear,  everyt continue as it always has.

    “Let’s continue to illustrate our book,” I said. “Let everytinue as it always has.”

    “turists. I am continuing my h Black Effendi.”

    as o kill him?

    “er and her children?”

    I sensed t some oto my mout I couldn’t restrain myself. to be  and sarcastic. Beertaining jinns—intelligence and sarcasm—I sensed trolled t t, te began to racked t of blood.

    moment long ago? In a distant city, at a time  see fell, by t of a candle, I tempting to explain tears t I irely innocent to a crotcy old dotard, . Back t as noo ood from Enis cting an evil old man, and from o fix mercilessly into mine, t ended to crusattered memory from urist’s apprentice like a picture   inct but faded memory.

    So, as I arose and circled bee Effendi, lifting t neal ones t rested on able, turist  Master Osman illed in us all—rating inct yet faded colors, not as somet as if it side, ion,  small-mout, I said:

    “en-year-old apprentice, I sa suc.”

    “It’s a t,” said Enis it all tabriz. It’s for red.”

    At t very moment, it o drive t inkpot do onto ted old man’s faulty brain. But I didn’t give in to t is I, I’m t Effendi.”

    You understand rusted t Enisand, and in turn, forgive me—t he would fear and help me.