, able steo my mout a public kitcing tention on tyle border illumination, I feel I’m living t as if it . t is,   I .

    traordinary events I e occurred at once in t and in t. It  snoreet we Effendi lived.

    Unlike ot I ed. On otake me mindedly t about otold my mot t volumes al rosettes dating from time of tamerlane, about tinued s otill painted under my name or about my tomfoolery and transgressions. time,  and intent.

    tyard gate—t I feared no one s oo knock, reassuring me t Allaone-paved portion of tyard t I s rations to Enis book y. to t beside ted t, and perc a sparroly oblivious to t fart tone stove,  even at te o t, table for visitors’  of ted it to be. I entered table, and as an uninvited guest migo avoid e scene, I stamped my feet and cougaircase to ters.

    My couged no response. Nor did tamping my muddy s next to t trance of teroom. As om o be S green pair among t for naugy t no one was home crossed my mind.

    I o t into t cuddled tresses, and opened a c in tall armoire  door.  te almond scent in t be t of Suffed into t, fell onto my dim-ted o a copper pitc was cold.

    “e Effendi called from ?”

    I sly exited tered te Effendi on  er.

    “It’s me, Enishte Effendi,” I said. “Me.”

    “ you be?”

    At t instant, I understood t te Effendi ed o do le mockery of us. As a y scribe mige in t leaf of a magnificently illustrated manuscript, I slo.”

    “ first, then added, “hah!”

    Just like ts Deate Effendi sank into a ver