Various manuscript pages lay before me and t Master Osman—some exts and ready to be bound, some not yet colored or otever reason—as  an entire afternoon evaluating ter miniaturists and te’s book, keeping cs of our assessments. e t  of tful but crude men, ed from turists and calligrapsoever to do  tly accepting side tra coins), o ted master and removed a piece of paper from his sash.

    I paid no mind at first, t itions from a faticesains as possible. I could tell t t t filtered inside. to rest my eyes, I ers of Surists do to stave off premature blindness, t is, I rying to look emptily into tance  focusing. t’s opping folds of ter ared at cly tters t S me via Est to say, “ a coincidence” like an idiot, , like S letter, it ing on coarse paper!

    Master Osman kept ting to ter t I just then embarrassingly realized was from Shekure.

    My Dear  Esto sound out late Elegant Effendi’s ed page, er, I  to Kalbiye’s o persuade  it erest to give me ture. t Effendi’s body ter must o tigation. tfully. Your wife, Shekure.

    I carefully read t tiful note taring at t Master Osman inizing, magnifying lens in raigiced t tcion as ters o accustom the hand.

    Master Osman,  comment, voiced a question: “urist e’s horse.”

    Could ain? Moreover,  at all sure .

    It   you couldn’t take your eyes off of. as I being truty of time to look at te, and later, rations, but I  given it muc t iful, but ordinary

    even able to determine   a true cnut, but more bay-color