A silence filled t Effendi. I assumed he’d kill me as

    o confess and terrify me? Did  ed? I ed I  artist iffly be t large inkpot reserved for red, but I didn’t turn to face  yet quieted down,” I said.

    e fell silent again. time, I kne my deatune, old  e intelligent, and if you grant t an illustrator must never reveal elligence is, of course, an asset.  ion, but I oo confused to see myself out of this game. here was Shekure?

    “You kne  you?” he asked.

    I  kno all, not until old me. In t done  Effendi, and t te miniaturist migually succumbed to ies and made trouble for t of us.

    I o ty house.

    “I’m not surprised you killed ernally of t’s more, ruggling  is, ruggling to make pictures in a Muslim city. As urists are inclined to feel guilty and regretful,  to blame ourselves before oto be asy. e make our books in secret like soo tacks of ics ist’s imagination.““You don’t fault me for murdering t idiotic miniaturist, do you then?”

    “ attracts us to ing, illustrating and painting is bound up in tribution. It’s not only for money and favor t o evening, continuing by candlelig to t of blindness and sacrifice ourselves for pictures and books, it’s to escape ttle of oto escape ty, but in contrast to to create,  to see and appreciate tures rator of genuine talent! Yet, genuine painting is es. It’s contained in ture, urist kno, yet at time,  as o sucful, nerve-ence? By blaming ist believes

    en to s , for or of Isfa these hellfires himsel