endi　whom

he’d　cultivated；　a　man　trained　in　illumination　and　book　arts。　Had　I　met　him？　I

remained silent。 A short while ago； upon the invitation of his Enishte； Black

had returned from the Persian front； where he was under Serhat Pasha’s

mand—the　mander　shot　me　a　look　of　suspicion。　Here；　in　Istanbul；　he

worked himself into his Enishte’s good graces and learned the story of the

book　whose　creation　Enishte　was　overseeing。　Black　claimed　that　after　Elegant

Effendi was killed； Enishte suspected one of the master miniaturists who

visited him at night to work on this manuscript。 He’d seen the illustrations

these masters had made and said that Enishte’s murderer—the selfsame

painter　who　stole　the　Sultan’s　illustration　with　the　lion’s　share　of　gold　leaf—

was one of them。 For two days； this young Black Effendi had concealed the

death of Enishte from the palace and the Head Treasurer。 Within that very

two…day　period；　he’d　rushed　ahead　with　a　marriage　to　Enishte’s　daughter；　an

ethically　and　religiously　dubious　affair；　and　settled　into　Enishte’s　house；　thus；

both　the　men　before　me　considered　Black　a　suspect。

“If　their　houses　and　workplaces　are　searched　and　the　missing　page　turns　up

with　one　of　my　master　miniaturists；　Black’s　innocence　will　be　established　at

once；” I said。 “Frankly； however； I can tell you that my dearest children； my

divinely　inspired　miniaturists；　whom　I’ve　known　since　they　were　apprentices；

are　incapable　of　taking　the　life　of　another　man。”

“As　for　Olive；　Stork　and　Butterfly；”　said　the　mander；　mockingly　using

th