"Hold still!" Farzanah hissed.
Tahmineh stopped stretching her foot out to let the cat rub its face on her toe. "I am!"
Looking up from the detailed henna she was attempting on her sister's hand, Farzanah raised an eyebrow. Tahmineh matched her gaze defiantly, then slowly moved her foot back. "It's not my fault the cat is so demanding."
Ignoring the excuse, Farzanah resumed her craft. Tahmineh wanted to talk, but was also aware that she was unable to do so without incurring the wrath of her sister. She lazed there, trying not to think too hard about how intensely her nose suddenly itched. The sunlight warming her skin was dappled through the intricate carving on the shutters. The scent of henna mixed pleasingly with the sandalwood burning, and Tahmineh breathed it in, savoring this time with Farzanah. The offending cat took to cleaning herself, still just out of reach of any appendage.
Tahmineh was content. Her life was quiet, and, as the daughter of the king, very comfortable. She studied the woman intently drawing flowers and vines on her hand. Farzanah was not only her sister, but her dearest friend and confidant. It was universally acknowledged that the older woman was the very embodiment of dignity and grace, and Tahmineh longed to be like her. However, she had a tendency to follow her impulses rather than considering consequences; her desire to emulate her sister ended where effort at disciplining herself began.
"I think I'll go for a ride today," Tahmineh sighed absentmindedly.
"You will not." Farzanah didn't even look up when she made the pronouncement.
Tahmineh hadn't actually intended to go for a ride, but the moment her sister forbade her, she irrevocably resolved to do just that. "Yes I will."
"I'm not going to spend all this time decorating your hands only to have you smear the henna all over them before they dry." Tahmineh had been defiantly glaring at Farzanah, but averted her eyes when she looked up from her work.
Looking at the floor, the window, the cat, Tahmineh stubbornly said, "I can be careful."
"That's what you said last time."
Still not meeting her sister's gaze, Tahmineh tried to think of a biting comeback, but nothing came, because she knew Farzanah was right. This did not weaken her resolve.
"I'm done, and I know you're going to do what you want anyway. Try not to ruin it completely." With that, Farzanah gathered her things, kissed the pertinacious woman on the head, and left.
Tahmineh reclined for what seemed an interminable amount of time, waiting for the henna to dry sufficiently. Because it was in reality only a few minutes, she was saved by the cat choosing to curl up on her legs just as she was about to rise, thereby rendering her unable to move. She studied the designs on her hands, and wondered if she would ever carry herself the way Farzanah did, gliding through the halls, serene with a confidence Tahmineh envied. Once again, she keenly felt the differences between them, how like their mother Farzanah was, and how she herself always seemed to find bruises whose origins were a mystery, and could never think of clever things to say until hours after conversations were over. Comparing herself to her sister often led to a resolution to be more patient, and less demanding, however short-lived that was. It also blinded her to her own charms; she was astute, and for all her self-indulgence, she cared deeply for her family and went out of her way to show it.
When the cat jumped off her lap, Tahmineh put on a qaba, veiled herself, and went to the stable. When she entered, she came upon the most magnificent animal she had ever beheld. There, in one of the stalls, was a large horse, with a broad chest and hooves like iron. He seemed restless, and every time he moved, she could see his powerful muscles rippling beneath is onyx fur. Suddenly he looked at her, and she had the strangest sensation that he understood her, that he might have an intellect that surpassed all other beasts, and she was so taken aback by this, that she forgot her determination to ride. Something in the back of her mind was pricking at her, but she couldn't place the memory. Unsettled, she turned and started away from the stable.
It was dusk as she wandered across the courtyard. The sound of tables scraping against the floor and dishes rattling against other dishes drifted out from the feast hall, while a musician quietly played her qanun. The aroma of Tabrizi kofta made Tahmineh's mouth water. She wondered why all these preparations were going on, and upon asking a servant, was told that her father had a surprise guest- Rostam.
Rostam!
Suddenly, she realized why she knew that horse she had never seen before: it was Rakhsh, the famous steed of the great Persian hero. It was said that no other horse could carry him, so mighty was Rostam. This was the man who vanquished all other heroes, whom no one could best, who killed a leopard with his bare hands! Tahmineh's mind whirred. She had heard the legends of Rostam, and heard the fear in the voices of men when they spoke of him, and he was here, tonight, and a guest of her father's. Something coiled inside her, awakened by the possibility of seeing the man who had held her fascination for so many years. Her heart was beginning to race, and her face was hot.
What is wrong with me? she wondered, but then she understood when movement caught her eye, and she saw a servant leading to the feast hall a tall man with shoulders that would put Atlas himself to shame. His hair curled past his shoulders, and he walked with the casual bearing of a predator. His kohl-lined eyes were dark and intense, and that something coiling inside Tahmineh blossomed into pure, profound desire. If she knew nothing else, she knew she must be with him. Tonight.
Tahmineh hurried back to her quarters, instructing servants to prepare a jasmine-scented bath immediately. She looked with shame at the henna that had not yet stained her hands that was about to be washed away, but was certain Farzanah would understand. Immersing herself in the water, she let herself fantasize about how the night would unfold.
Most of her life was spent among other women and girls. This isn't to say she never interacted with men, but she had certainly never been truly alone with one. Aside from her brothers, who were being raised to be spirited and prideful like their father, the men she knew had either been political acquaintances and friends of the king, or musicians, or servants. A young man from Cairo had once visited on behalf of his father, and all during the feast, the way he looked at Tahmineh had made her blush. He was pretentious and full of himself, but when he smiled, his eyes glittered with mischief, and she couldn't help but giggle. He had stayed at the palace for three days, during which he would send her messages of affection and love. Every time they crossed paths, he would gaze at her lustily, and she would lower her lashes, not knowing how to respond, but overcome by a thrill that had never before enveloped her.
His last night, Farzanah had agreed to a walk in the garden, and lingered behind the lovers so they could speak privately. His words had been flattering and ridiculous and delightful all at once, and he even quoted Rumi to Tahmineh.
Watch the dust grains moving
in the light near the window.
Their dance is our dance.
She had never felt an attraction to any man before, and though she was enchanted by his innumerable charms, she was uncomfortable by how flustered she felt with him. At least, until he kissed her. The sensation of his lips on hers, and his arms wrapped around her waist stirred the woman who had previously waited dormant. After his kiss, he placed his hands on Tahmineh's cheeks, looked deeply and meaningfully into her eyes, and with his flair for the dramatic, disappeared. She hadn't heard from him since.
As she soaked in the bath, she reminisced about Nadir. She thought about his soft kiss, and wondered how a man like Rostam would kiss her. She was both frightened and exhilarated and she closed her eyes and stroked the inside of her thigh, imagining her fingertips were those of this man who intrigued her so acutely. She had never known the pleasures of a man, but she had heard women talk about it. Tahmineh was certain that a man of his stature and renown would be a skilled and attentive lover. She envisioned their eyes locked, exchanging all their proclamations of yearning without a single word needing to be uttered. He would stroke her cheek with his strong, calloused hand before enveloping her in an embrace. His lips would descend upon hers, and she would welcome his soft, warm tongue as it explored hers. Knowing that she was innocent, he would patiently caress every curve and valley of her body, arousing and exciting her, preparing her to receive his undoubtedly awe-inspiring manhood.
Once out of the bath, Tahmineh clothed herself in her finest silks and had jasmine braided into her hair. She rimmed her eyes with kohl, causing the jade color to intensify. She covered her head with strands of pearls, and rubies dangled from her ears. She looked at her hands, at the faint design she sacrificed for her imminent night of passion. Subduing a pang of regret, she left her room and quietly went to Rostam's to wait for him.
The moon had risen and its light filled the room with a cool, languid atmosphere that Tahmineh luxuriated in, filled with anticipation. She arranged and rearranged herself several times, trying to create the most attractive image for Rostam to behold when he entered. The music and laughter from the revel still echoed through the courtyard, but it was getting late, and the young woman knew her lover would be appearing soon. She took deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, and found that her palms were damp with sweat.
Well, that's no way to seduce a living legend, she thought. She started shaking her hands, trying to relax and and dry them off at the same time. It was then that an enormous, dark figure stepped into the room. Tahminah turned to face him, and as he stepped into the light cascading through the window, she could see that he was swaying and struggling to focus. It did not surprise her that Rostam was drunk; her father always had plenty of wine for his guests. Coquettishly, she tilted her head down and looked up at him. It wasn't that he was handsome, though he certainly was attractive, but that everything about him seemed to emanate masculinity. Even though he was fully clothed, she could see that his strength was formidable, and his coat hung open at the chest exposing multiple scars. Here stood Rostam. She almost could not comprehend it. She was in Rostam's bedchamber, and a slow, appreciative smile was spreading across his face.
Even through his thick, slurred accent, she could understand when he said, "Well, what do we have here?"
