n happily merged in Olive.

    As urists, I once paid an unannounced visit to  of many oter miniaturists, s, brusable and ots. It ery to me, but  even embarrassed by it. ook no outside jobs to earn a fera silver coins. After I related ts, Black said it  ease yles of ters admired by e Enisood to be praise from t of vieaken t  say o t styles—o or Siyavusor Muzaffer, back to ters—to be, but it alurists (I told myself spontaneously),  quiet and sensitive, but also t guilty and traitorous, and by far t devious.  about torture c to come to mind. (I boted and didn’t  o be tortured.) iced and took account of everytcomings; o accommodate o any situation, o point out mistakes.  not in my opinion a

    murderer. (I didn’t tell Black t believe in anyt  arary to reme fait illumination leads to painting, and painting, in turn, leads to—God forbid—co judge by ist. Nevert s fall s of Butterfly’s, or even Stork’s. I ed Olive to be my son. As I said ted to incur Black’s jealousy, but aring y. t ty boys gatree reciting verse and playing lutes, and tack of a dragon.

    “Pere ed Olive to do t picture t ail, in tyle of tan’s face and manner of sitting,” Black said.

    as rying to confuse me?

    “Supposing ter Olive killed Enisure e in order to see t picture?”

    e botions for a while.

    “Because t painting,” said Black. “Or because s somet. Or even…”  for a aken ting to do furto, or even for no reason at all. Olive is, after all, a great illustrator  for a beautiful pain