Stork　and　Black。　I　gave　a　cry　of　joy　and　embraced　Butterfly。

“Alas；　what　we’ve　had　to　bear　of　late！”　I　lamented；　burying　my　head　into

his　shoulder。　“What　do　they　want　from　us？　Why　are　they　killing　us？”

Each　of　them　displayed　the　panic　of　being　separated　from　the　herd；　which

I’d　seen　from　time　to　time　in　every　master　painter　over　the　span　of　my　life。

Even　here　in　the　lodge；　they　were　loath　to　separate　from　one　another。

“We　can　safely　take　refuge　here　for　days。”

“We　worry；”　Black　said；　“that　the　person　we　should　fear　is　perhaps　in　our

very　midst。”

“I；　too；　grow　anxious；”　I　said。　“For　I　have　heard　such　rumors　as　well。”

There were rumors； spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to

the　division　of　miniaturists；　claiming　that　the　mystery　about　the　murderer　of

Elegant　Effendi　and　late　Enishte　was　solved：　He　was　one　of　us　who’d　labored

over　that　book。

Black　inquired　as　to　how　many　pictures　I’d　drawn　for　Enishte’s　book。

“The first one I made was Satan。 It was of the variety of underground

demon　mon　to　the　old　masters　in　the　workshops　of　the　Whitesheep。　The

storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path； that’s why I made the two

dervishes。　I　was　the　one　who　suggested　to　Enishte　that　he　include　them　in　his

book；　convincing　him　that　there　was　a　special　place　for　these　dervishes　in　the

lands　of　the　Ottomans。”

“Is　that　all？”　asked　Black。

When　I　told　him；　“Yes；　that’s　all；”　he　went　to　the　door　with　the　superior　air

of　a　master　who　caught　an　apprentice　stealing；　he　brought　in　a　roll　of　paper

untouched　by　the　rain；　and　placed　it　before　us　three　artists　like　a　mother　cat