My Dear Shadi,

My life has allowed me to see some small part of the world. I have been to a number of the great capitals, both Eastern and Western. I have sailed over blue seas and strolled through green country-sides, stood in awe of the mountains wrought by both man and Earth. Yet none of none of the places I have been can compare to Mazandaran.

Trust me when I tell you that my words are not the simple product of nostalgia, of longing for the past. Mazandaran is the most beautiful place on Earth—yet, are we not told that Satan was the most beautiful of God's angels? But I am getting ahead of myself again. I could not foresee the future then anymore then than I could do so now. In that summer of 1860, I simply saw paradise on Earth.

We arrived in Nowshahr, where Naser al-Din made his summer home, in an evening the likes of which only happen there.

If I told you how many minutes have passed between the time I penned the above words and these, you would scoff at me. In truth, I hesitate to put down my recollections of Mazandaran, for fear you may think me a foolish old woman full of fancies, and in coming to that conclusion, discount the worth of all my words. I suppose there could be some glamour thrown over my memories of the place. It was my gateway into the greater world, even if the world was a long time coming. And I was happy there, if only for a time. But such happiness it was. Yes, my memories of Mazandaran may well be biased. But all autobiography is biased. Remember that it was my story you asked for, and my story has Mazandaran cast as a place utterly set apart from the common world. I hope that in conceding this point, you will take the rest of my tale seriously.

We arrived in the early evening, the sky painted that pale amethyst hue that I have never seen anywhere save in a Mazandarani twilight. It was usually humid there, which resulted in perennial greenery and caught deep fogs and mists between the sea and mountains.

I must have looked every inch the gawking country girl I was, for Feridoon laughed at me—and Feridoon so seldom laughed. I was not upset at his mirth, even though it was at my expense. I had made something to that very effect my mission in life. After all, I had come from a provincial life that, while very comfortable, had involved quite a bit of daily work. Now I was the only wife of a city gentleman, and being as useful as I could be occupied precious little of my day. Idleness did not suit, and it came naturally to me to seek out a project. And what better project than my own husband? I wanted to make him smile; I wanted to make him laugh. Feridoon was good to me, and kind in an age when men did not need to be so. But there was always a pall of sorts over him, a weight that followed him like a vengeful ghost, dampening whatever joy his melancholy nature might have otherwise allowed him.

I did not yet understand what it meant to be in the service of the Shah. I did not realize how it stripped men of their security, and sometimes even of their dignity. One hears of royal service and thinks of the honor of it, and little more. There was an honor to it, I suppose, and the potential for great gain. But in the wake of every triumph came the distinct possibility of a reversal; every reward could be snatched back. Every honor came with a price, and one never knew when that price might be collected.

Feridoon knew all of this, of course. Looking back, I can even see how he tried to prepare me. His warnings were numerous and constant. Though I tried to take him seriously, his cautions sometimes seemed like a hypochondriac's cough. Perhaps if he had taken a firmer hand… but Feridoon was always delicate with me, even once he learned that he did not need to be, and at that age I had not quite mastered the interpretation of nuances. I also believe—hindsight being such a painfully marvelous thing—that Feridoon fell into the trap of ever so many good men. He thought that he alone could protect me.

My poor, dear Feridoon. I miss him, from time to time, even after all these years. It is a selfish longing, I admit. I do not think anyone has ever quite loved me like Feridoon did, and it is so pleasant to be loved.

…But perhaps this really is just the long years tinting my memories in jewel tones. I cannot be sure. I think not, but as I keep on writing for you, I keep on questioning myself. I must wonder. These events are nearly fifty years done—how dare I presume that I am immune to the dulling of time?...

Again with my meanderings! I keep on trying to find the correct balance of giving you a complete picture of the events and times I experienced, while not boring you with the meaningless details. It is not coming easily, my dear! I laugh to think that I warned you in my first letter that I would not stay my pen. I had meant to convey that I might shock you with unpleasant or uncouth things—not that I would digress time and again into pointless reminisces that you cannot really be interested in. I forget, sometimes, that I am out of fashion.

I shall endeavor to rectify the matter.

We arrived in Mazandaran surrounded by those fantasy colors and the sea salt hanging heavily in the air. Feridoon kept a house near the palace grounds, though as far on the outskirts of Court as could be managed without ending up amongst servants and slaves. I have fond memories of that place, the first house I was true mistress over. I loved its blue tiled courtyard and chipped fountain, the walled roof garden and the gold silk window hangings in my bedroom. It may have suffered some in those early days from Feridoon's bachelorhood and inclination towards austerity, but I thought it a fine house then, and I think it a fine house now.

Feridoon had scarcely finished showing me the house when our—rather, his—first visitor arrived. I was still properly veiled from the journey, and when Feridoon heard the name of our guest, he bid me stay.

You may recall Nadir from your early youth. He was always called my cousin in those later days, though he was in fact Feridoon's second cousin on his mother's side. He was always a curious man, Cousin Nadir. He was titled Khan—which placed him only below the Navab, the Princes of the Blood, and the Janab, the highest ministers of state and grand governors. He was even related to Naser al-Din, though I could never quite figure out how. For all that, he never allowed himself airs. I say allowed, because he warranted them but did not have them. He worked hard at assignments others would have dallied over and ignored. A sober man, who always listened, though the fashion was to talk. That last trait was one he shared with my husband, and I came to respect him for it.

Of course, I did not know that then (how very little I knew then!) All I saw was a man as dark as a Moor, who stood a hand or two above most others, and had green eyes that never veered to either blue or hazel.

He made the appropriate remarks and then, with an abruptness that you must understand was extremely out of step with our culture, turned to my husband. "We must speak."

Feridoon turned grim. Grimness was always an ill look on him. With his scars, he tended to look merely… battle-weary. "As you will. Mojgan—send for tea."

'Send for tea' was a command I had frequently obeyed from my father. He would have me set down a tea tray and then conceal myself during his business meetings—out of sight, but not earshot. It was force of habit that led me to do the same that first evening with Feridoon and Nadir. Well, and curiosity. (There is no one left to chastise me for giving in to my curiosity.)

It did not take long to prepare the tea, but when I brought out the tray, Feridoon and Nadir were already deep in discussion. They did not stop as I poured out their cups. I remember the entire affair so clearly: the gold rims of the tea glasses glinting by the oil lamp's flame, the spike of cardamom from the tea, quickly rearranging the pistachio cookies to hide a chip on the plate. And I remember the feeling that overwhelmed in that moment: surprise. No one—no one—would start in on business before tea was served and trivialities exhausted. But there they were, not a half hour from the time Nadir had stepped into our home, most definitely in serious discussion. I slipped away and sat behind the half-wall and curtains where one might very easily expect to find a wife awaiting her husband's command.

It was difficult to pick up the thread of conversation. They spoke of people I did not know, places I had never heard of, sums of money I had never imagined.

It was only when the conversation shifted to Erik that I realized they had been indulging in idle chitchat. All important things, but not the meat of the matter.

"I remember when you were sent to fetch the man," Feridoon said of Erik. "Was he not a singer? How did he come to preside over the palace repairs?"

"He wanted to," Nadir said.

"Who has ever gotten what they wanted here?" Feridoon countered, "What are you not telling me?"

"He is capable," Nadir said. He sounded ever-so-slightly offended. His relationship with Erik was always a complex—like a father to a son, like a hanging judge to a murderer.

"And who is ever given a job they are capable of?"

There was a long pause. "He has the fear of many," Nadir said. "He has powers."

"Powers," Feridoon repeated. "He has powers. Like what? He is wealthy? High born?"

There was an even longer pause this time. "He has set himself up as a sort of sorcerer."

It was Feridoon's turn to pause. "A sorcerer."

"He is an illusionist," Nadir said firmly.

"This is absurd," Feridoon said.

"I… would agree, if I did not know the man. When he finds out that you have returned, he will be hunting for you. The Shah has given him access to funds for the repairs, but—"

Feridoon groaned. "I see my sums being dashed to the ground."

"Oh, yes."

They continued for another hour at least, and I learned more about the unsavory side of the Court than I would have thought possible. Nadir took his leave, and after some time Feridoon came and found me.

He did not smile. "They shouldn't have called you Mojgan," he said, running a finger lightly over my eyelids, though such little touches were not part of his nature. "They should have called you Goosh." He tapped my ear. "Did you learn anything?"

"Precious little," I confessed.

"Good," he said, and walked away.

The night was sweltering, and Feridoon had his servants drag mattresses out onto the roof garden. Despite the heat, he held me close and whispered to me.

"I think you have a good deal of wisdom, Mojgan," he said. "I think you are discreet. I married you for your discretion. Please—please use your discretion."

I did not know quite how to reply, but I nodded.

"You will hear things," he continued, with uncharacteristic urgency in his voice, "in my house, you will hear much. Eventually, you will go to Court. You will meet the other women. You will hear much. Do not let them know how much you hear. Do not speak. Please, Mojgan, do not speak."

I nodded again, and he seemed to take comfort in my silent acquiescence. He fell asleep in short order, but I stayed awake for many hours afterwards.

When sleep finally claimed me, my mind was clouded with castles drifting through purple skies, and my poor Feridoon waging battle with a great magician.

I thank God in heaven I haven't the gift of prophecy. Not that the true future was much better than my imaginings.

I hope this letter finds you well, dear. You will tell me if you want me to cease my ramblings, yes?

Mojgan Banu Khanum