Ella.

He did not know what to think of her. She had done the sutures under protest, but she did a thorough job. Her fingertips were soft and surprisingly gentle given it was her first time. Her face had been a wicked shade of green.

He had not expected her to ask for his name – it had been several years since he had used it. In Russia he liked the anonymity; here, everything was an illusion – the various titles he took on fed and supported the façade.

He had not expected all her careful, cautious questions – about the palace, his travels, and how he ended up covered in blood in the middle of Persia on a random Thursday evening.

He had not expected to want to know how she had come to be this strange ghost of a girl in the shah's palace, pining away for a home she had lost as a child. He had not expected to want to know her name, her thoughts on Persia, or the purpose behind the hidden prayers she offered up each night in whispers.

And he prided himself on expecting, anticipating, everything.

He discovered her habit by accident, as the summer heat began to roll into the city. The apartment would swelter if the doors were left closed, needing a cross-breeze to cool off the rooms at night as well as during the day. During these hot nights they both began to leave the doors cracked open, an unspoken agreement upheld with averted eyes and a mutual silence. One night he had stayed up much later than usual, and had needed the great room table to spread out an especially large set of blueprints. He was leaning over the southern wing when the glow of the candle caught his eye. The light from her candle had poured over the white of her nightgown like warm silver, and turned her skin and hair to gold. Her head was bent forward, exposing the soft pale column of her neck beneath her braided hair. Her lips were pink the warm light, and silently whispering the prayer she had prayed when she was presented. Something about her hidden ritual brought to mind the faceless, serene glow of prayer candles flickering in the dark, sending their silent requests skyward in curls of heat and smoke. Precious, pointless, and achingly sad.

He watched her as often as he could, beneath the cover of his papers or silent in the dark, feeling like a voyeur in observing this highly personal ritual and yet fascinated by her persistence. She prayed like a European, like a child, her thin skirts bundled into a pad beneath her knees and her hands clasped upon the edge of her bed. She shut her eyes, the fair lashes feathering out like pale fans upon her cheeks, and offered up whispered words into the night. What conversations she had with her God he could not imagine.

He went to her door one night when he could not stand the question anymore, and stood silently against the frame. "Ella."

She jumped slightly, jerked out of her thoughts, but gave him a half of a smile. "Hello, Erik. I didn't realize you were still awake."

"What are you asking for?"

"Grace."

"That is a high order for a mattress."

"It is not an order, and I am not asking the mattress," she answered lightly, averting the challenge.

"But why? Why still do it after all these years?" he demanded.

"My mother taught me my prayers when I was a little girl – when I pray I remember her. And I like to believe there is someone out there who sees me, who hears me. I like to think that one day I will see my family again, that this isn't all there is," she said softly. "Why do you dislike it so much?"

"Because God is a lie, and it's one that people use to hide behind."

She frowned – he could tell that she disagreed, but she did not press the point. "Weren't you raised in a faith by your parents?

Flashes of those early catechisms flashed through his mind, all those useless, earnest prayers repeated night after night by a child too young to realize that some things were impossible. "My father died before I was born; my mother did not have much heart for it after that. I don't think she was particularly devout before – she was very young." He hestitated, then continued quietly, "But he was known as a good man."

Why, why would you tell her that?

"I'm sorry," she said simply. He waited for Ella to ask more, poised with a scathing reply to deflect the question and end the conversation. It had taken years for those wounds to close – he would not re-open them on a whim to satisfy a girl with a candle. Instead she asked, "Are you ever lonely here?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"I am – constantly. I just wondered if you were, too, even though you did not like Europe much. The other night you said that Persia was different now than it was in the beginning."

Erik thought of the healing gash that prickled across his shoulder and back. The wound had been far too accurate and far too deep for comfort. He had seen the knife coming, and yet had not been able to move. He just stared at it dispassionately for seconds too long, before his instincts had kicked in and sent him hurtling to one side of his attacker while burying the knife into his neck. The blood had sprayed everywhere – it was messy, and out of character. And in the end, there he was – not an untouched Angel of Death, but a bleeding carcass in a ring surrounded by the spoiled court of the Sultana. Their faces had been twisted with glee, and he realized that the excitement was that each time, there was the chance that he would die, as well. Days later, stitches well concealed, he had unveiled his latest torture and watched dispassionately as its victims begged and screamed within its confines. Another toy for the Sultana, another disaster from his hands.

"Persia is different because the Sultana is a lunatic," he replied cuttingly. "It was not supposed to be like this. I came here thinking that I could get away from this, do something else. I couldn't find any real work in Europe – I am too young, no one knows me, and no one wants an architect without a face. I wanted a project that would prove that I could create something wonderful, something the whole world would have to notice. I had a good teacher, once, who taught me everything he knew. I wanted to take that and prove that it wasn't wasted. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, to make a name for myself so I would never have to run from here to there begging for work again." He stopped himself abruptly. "But everything I touch seems to twist around on itself, and now I make the most horrible tortures in the world. You have seen them, haven't you? They are becoming quite famous."

She didn't know what to say to that, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. "How old are you?" she finally asked.

"Thirty-three."

"Liar," she proclaimed unexpectedly, and he smiled despite himself.

"Fine. Twenty-two. But say thirty-three if anyone asks."

"Twenty-two is still young – there will be other palaces after this one," she said gently.

Erik was surprised she did not try to convince him to leave, or to refuse the Sultana's demands. Of course, she is interested in leaving here alive, despite the Sultana.

"I forget sometimes that you have learned this place the way you have," he observed.

She shrugged. "I have been here a long time- and the Sultana rules the harem completely."

Erik wondered what she had seen, but could not bring himself to ask. The apartment was hot – oppressive and stuffy under the lingering heat of the day, and he suddenly wanted to think about something else, something outside of the palace, the Sultana, and the ruined plans wrapped up in the court.

"Did you like the new books?"

"I did – I finished A Midsummer Night's Dream first. Have you read it?"

"No, I haven't."

"It is very pretty – it is about a wedding and an enchanted forest."

"Tell me the plot."

He watched her as she described the lovers' misadventures, the fairies' trickery, and the faltering play launched for the duke and duchess, her voice drawing out the story word by word on the blank canvas of the night. She smiled as she described the exciting parts of the story and its happy ending, her eyes soft and bright in the candlelight as she drew them both into a world outside of Persia.