Do you wonder why I call those hours rosy, whether it is a bitter jest or something more? There is no simple answer to that, but if you wish to understand then picture this; picture it in the soft hues of watercolours, faded as a dream on waking. Oh, yes, I grow fanciful in my old age.
It is just past dawn and the court is already awake, taking advantage of these coolest hours before the heat of day sets in. The little Sultana sits on her throne, a servant fanning away the midges stands nearby. An albino cobra lies sleeping in a basket at her feet, milked of its venom daily by her servants, for she has a taste, the little Sultana, for the exotic and deadly. She is veiled from head to foot in bright colours, gold bangles chime on her dainty arms. Barely eighteen she is both shrewd and childish, she has never been asked to consider the feelings of another.
Kneeling to the side of her throne, hands folded on its armrest, is a figure as veiled as she but all in black, as if he were a shadow cast by her radiance. The Trap-door Lover, looking up at her through his veil, their heads close together like conspirators. I am too far away to hear and I cannot tell which of them talks and which listens. There is adoration in the set of his shoulders, indulgence in the tilt of her head. In some ways he is her perfect counterpoint, for, if she has always treated humans as existing to amuse her, he has too often existed for the amusement of others. Neither of them understands compassion.
The Trap-door Lover sees me then, turns to whisper ostentatiously into her ear so that I will know that I am mocked. Her melodious laugh rings out around the court and she turns to beckon me, the picture fades from memory as I enter it.
Would you understand if I said I loved them both, those wicked children, who held our lives so carelessly in their hands?