Various manuscript pages lay before me and the great Master Osman—some with calligraphed texts and ready to be bound, some not yet colored or otherwise unfinished for whatever reason—as we spent aire afternoon evaluating the master miniaturists and the pages of my Enishte』s book, keeping charts of our assessments. We thought we』d seen the last of the ander』s respectful but crude men, who』d brought us the pages collected from the miniaturists and calligraphers whose homes they raided and searched (some pieces had nothing whatsoever to do with either of our two books and some pages firmed that the calligraphers, as well, were secretly accepting work from outside the palace for the sake of a few extra s), when the most brash of them stepped over to the exalted master and removed a piece of paper from his sash.
I paid no mind at first, thinking it was one of those petitions from a father seeking an apprenticeship for his son by approag as many division heads and group captains as possible. I could tell that the m sun had vanished by the pale light that filtered io rest my eyes, I was doing an exercise the old masters of Shiraz reended miniaturists do to stave off premature blindness, that is, I was trying to look emptily into the distahout fog. That』s when I reized with a thrill the sweet color a-stopping folds of the paper which my master held and stared at with an expression of disbelief. This matched exactly the letters that Shekure had sent me via Esther. I was about to say, 「What a ce」 like an idiot, when I noticed that, like Shekure』s first letter, it was apanied by a painting on coarse paper!
Master Osmahe painting to himself. He handed me the letter that I just then embarrassingly realized was from Shekure.
My Dear Husband Black. I seher to sound out late Elegant Effendi』s widow, Kalbiye. While there, Kalbiye showed Esther this illustrated page, which I』m sending to you. Later, I went to Kalbiye』s house, doing everything within my power to persuade her that it was in her best io give me the picture. This page was on poor Elegant Effendi』s body when he was removed from the well. Kalbiye swears that nobody had issioned her husband, may he rest in divine light, to draw horses. So then, who made them? The ander』s men searched the house. I』m sending this note because this matter must have significe to the iigation. The children kiss your hands respectfully. Your wife, Shekure.
I carefully read the last three words of this beautiful hrice as if staring at three wondrous red roses in a garden. I leaned over the page that Master Osman was scrutinizing, magnifying lens in hand. I straightaway noticed that the shapes whose ink had bled were horses sketched in a siion as the old masters would do to ac the hand.
Master Osman, who read Shekure』s hout ent, voiced a question: 「Who drew this?」 He then answered himself, 「Of course, the same miniaturist who drew the late Enishte』s horse.」
Could he be so certain? Moreover, we weren』t at all sure who』d drawn the horse for the book. We removed the horse from among the nine pages and began to exami.
It was a handsome, simple, chestnut horse that you couldn』t take your eyes off of. Was I being truthful when I said this? I had plenty of time to look at this horse with my Enishte, and later, when I was left aloh these illustrations, but I hadn』t given it much thought then. It was a beautiful, but ordinary horse: It was so ordinary that we weren』t even able to de