My Dear Shadi,

Lord Byron wrote that truth is always strange; stranger than fiction. I know that the poet died in Greece, but based on these words I wonder if he had traveled further east.

I cannot be certain if it is a peculiarity of Persia or not, but the royal court yielded behaviors that… defy imagination. Perhaps it would have been better if some of the activities had defied imagining. I know my life would have been a bit happier for it.

The weeks following the New Year were among the quietest I ever experienced in Tehran. Feridoon's illness left him disinclined to exert himself. The Shah was uncharacteristically understanding. He lightened Feridoon's responsibilities, and as a consequence, my husband stayed close to home for some time. They were good days, if not so fantasy fueled as those first weeks in Mazandaran. The more I came to know of my husband, the more I cherished him. Though, in retrospect, I suspect I did not cherish him enough. Why must life be so filled with regret?

Shadi-joon, please— we cannot live sinless lives, but, with effort, we may live happy lives. And happy lives lead to fewer regrets. I think. Age has not brought me much wisdom, merely theories and deductions and shaky conclusions. Well, this is my conclusion: latch onto whatever happiness you find, and never let it leave you.

I suppose I'll be constantly begging your forgiveness. You have not asked for my wisdom, or my theories. Just my story. So—

Eventually duty called again, and Feridoon departed. It was the middle of the month of Khordad—early June, I suppose. Within weeks, the Shah's household would be reinstalled at Mazandaran. I was looking forward to going back to my little house. I thought that, perhaps, we would return to our earlier, more discreet way of life.

I did not know—I could not have even guessed that— that late spring in Tehran would be the last idyll for us. There was still love in our house, but never again would there be peace. And love without peace can be as devastating as life without love.

…I will admit that I left this letter unfinished for some hours. I recall, once, that you called me a cold woman. You were correct. I have always been a little cold and my coldness has served me well time and again. Now, alas, this cold woman is crying over a world long gone. It is rather pitiful, if you ask me.

I started out by writing of strange things. There was one specific event I had in mind, for it heralded the end of this era for me.

As our departure for Mazandaran drew ever closer, I received a summons to the harem. It was the Sultana.

While she had for the most part ignored me in Tehran, the summons did not surprise me. I took no great pains to avoid her. I somehow doubt that such efforts would have been effective, had I made them. In any event, the most she would have me do was play secretary for her.

Literacy varied greatly in the women's quarters. There were those who penned verses to rival Hafiz—but there were also ones who, if forced to try, could not have picked their name out of a registry list.

The Sultana fell into the latter category, though I doubt she would have admitted this to be a deficiency. She would merely exclaim 'I'm bored out of my skull!' and bid me sit beside her with pen and paper.

She would dictate letters to me, more often than not in Arabic. I have never been fluent in that language, and I am sure my spelling was atrocious. I might have been ashamed over it—if I had believed for a single moment that the missives would be sent and read. This I doubted profoundly. A few she burned before my very eyes; others she kept, and would spend some time staring at my handwriting, as if she could will the words to speak back to her. I would be surprised if she sent out a single one.

That day, she had me write several.

I think she simply liked to weave horror stories—for that is what my half-comprehension made of her discourses. It certainly fell in line with her taste for gruesome jokes and ghoulish recollections. I could never decide if this predilection stemmed from a desire to excise the blackness in her soul—or to spread it.

My mood was certainly turning a little black as the day wore on. I anticipated making a quick escape, but it was not to be.

One of the younger girls—I think one of the Shah's nieces—came up just as I was about to depart.

"Guess what His Majesty said?" she sat down in a swirl of short silk skirts. "We're playing the light game again tonight!"

The Sultana shrieked—probably in delight, given that she was clapping her hands as well. "Oh! You will stay to play with us, Mojgan!"

I tried to demur, but by then a number of the harem ladies were about, and all were chatting excitedly about the evening's amusements.

From what I could gather, the Shah had recently instituted a new game for his ladies. He would gather them together in a large room and then extinguish all of the lights. Under the cover of darkness, the ladies were free from the bounds of propriety. Do whatsoever you please without consequence, the Shah would say.

"Last time, Fatima's ruby brooch was stolen, and Zarintaj's dress was torn from hem to hem!" the little niece said. She lowered her voice, "and Nasreen was kissing one of the eunuchs! It was so funny!"

These were, in fact, rather tame examples from the Shah's 'Lights Out' game. As a diversion, it was incomprehensible to me. Eventually, the Shah's motives became clear to me. The harem was one of the most political places in the Persian court. And somehow—somehow—the game of being free in the dark actually did lower inhibitions, and laid bare many a loyalty and rivalry when the Shah randomly turned the lights back on.

Not that I had any concept of these machinations then. It seemed to me to be a silly waste of time, but I had plenty of time to waste. Only the most conservative grande dames begged off and I could not claim such distinction.

The Sultana migrated to her own little court of sycophants, leaving me to my more dignified companions. I felt foolishly at ease.

The Shah had all of his players attend upon him in the Building of the Wind Towers. I thought it odd, for this was outside of women's quarters. Erik later told me that it was the first building he had reworked the lighting in. The entire Palace was filled with gas lamps, and Erik had developed a way to control the lights in an entire room. It was this innovation that had served as the genesis for the Shah's game—relighting one lamp at a time would have defeated the purpose.

One wonders if the Shah had thought of the other advantage of the Building of the Wind Tower. The mirror work was exquisite. It twisted around pillars, edged brilliant enamel mosaics, climbed all across the ceiling. Any stray light would catch on the mirrors, or on the brilliant stained glass windows. These glimmers and chimeras were as mystifying as the pervading darkness.

It was no wonder that madness reigned in such a nightmarish dreamland.

I remember the Shah sitting at one end of the large, long room. He looked so benign, almost bored. He smiled vaguely at the women who chattered with him. Near at his hand was a switch—a peculiar switch, in the form of a bronze birdcage. Inside the cage, a bird carved of bone bobbed mechanically, its ruby eyes glinting. Once everyone had taken their positions—I stayed close to the wall, near my 'allies'— the Shah rested his hand on the birdcage. He turned it, and the room went black.

It started with a few giggles. And then a laugh—and then a screech—and a scream. I managed to stay next to my wall for some time, until I was pushed. I stumbled and fell onto the carpeted ground. Someone helped me up. Someone else pushed me again. Small hands took hold of my face and pulled me into a kiss.

There was more pushing, more screaming. Someone started crying.

"Mojgan? Is that you?" It sounded like one of the shy, younger wives. "Which way is out?"

I never had a change to answer her question. I was pulled back again and pushed to the floor. I could never quite reconstruct what happened next. I think my headscarf was pulled off, and then wrapped around my neck. I couldn't breathe.

The next thing I remember, I was staring up at a circle of concerned faces. The lights had been turned on at some point. I was not the only woman in disarray. Several were disrobed, or nearly so. Some had bloodied noses or hands. Anis al-Dawla, who had stayed away from the game itself, appeared in front of me.

"You're Mojgan Banu, yes?" she asked. Her voice was very mild, and she helped me to sit up. "Feridoon Ali Jah's wife?"

I didn't speak—it hurt terribly—but I nodded. I brushed my hand across my forehead to move my hair out of my eyes. My hand came back coated in red. I stared at it in fascination. I still remember how it gleamed in the gaslight.

"I'll have rooms prepared for you," she continued.

I found my what little was left of my voice and told her that I would return to my home. I had servants to escort me. There was some debate over this, but one of the other ladies was also preparing to leave and undertook to convey me away from the Palace.

It was only when Anis al-Dawla covered me in her own gold embroidered chador that I realized my clothing was ruined.

The Shah was still seated, watching the scene with his curious, dispassionate eyes. As I made to leave, he waved me over. I must have approached, though I do not remember how.

He pressed a shiny gold coin into my hand and gestured limply towards my dress. "Replace that with something pretty, hm?"

It is entirely possible that I laughed. I seem to have a memory of the Shah's eyebrows climbing up towards his hairline, but, mercifully, someone took me away before I did something foolish.

I don't remember the woman who took me out of the Building of the Wind Towers, but I know she was vexing me terribly. Oh, if only this day would end…

I'm not sure if I saw him first and called out or if he had seen me and approached, but I found myself speaking with Darius.

It was good that Darius eventually left Persia. He never could conceal his emotions. He look quite terrified as we spoke, eyes wide and lips white.

"I will fetch the Daroga," he said, "and he will convey you to safety."

Nadir must have been on the Palace grounds, for he came quickly. He looked me over, and ordered a palanquin called. "Feridoon is not at home?"

I replied that I did not expect to see him again until we moved back to Mazandaran.

"We will figure something out," he replied. I could also see a plan forming, brick by jade brick, in his eyes. "Until then, I'll send Darius to fetch your slave girls. You will stay in my house for a few days."

Perhaps I protested, perhaps not. I can't recall. He was my husband's kinsman, the closest relative I had in Tehran, and there was no arguing with him.

I passed a restless night in Nadir's home. My injuries were not severe, but I could not sleep for the pain. I arose at an early hour, and did not like to look in the mirror.

To steal another phrase from Byron's book—anachronistically, for I had never heard of the man back in Persia—" He seems to have seen better days, as who has not who has seen yesterday?" My bruises were livid blue across one cheek and down onto my neck. Small cuts had turned to dreadful scabs. My eyes were blood shot. My hands were the most hated memento from the previous night. I could not stop them from shaking.

My maid, Khadija, did the best that they could and I arrived in Nadir's parlor looking more or less proper.

His smile, while kind, was somewhat perfunctory. I was forcibly reminded of our first meeting, when he had spoken to Feridoon about Erik. I knew that I was dealing with the Daroga, not merely cousin Nadir. He asked fairly innocuous questions but ended up with the entire story. I belatedly wondered if Nadir should have been included in Feridoon's old admonition to keep silent and conceal how much I knew. It was too late, and I could only hope that Nadir would prove to be a real kinsman to me.

He did, thank God.

"You realize," he said at the end of our discussion, "that there is nothing that can be done. Unless His Majesty takes interest, but…"

"I never expected something to be done," I told him.

He smiled at me. "That is, perhaps, quite wise." He poured another glass of tea for me. "Your friend—Maryam?—is she still in town?"

I nodded.

"Why don't you invite her to your house for the next few days? And when the time comes, you will travel with my household to Mazandaran."

"I am not an invalid," I said.

He smiled again, a bit more patronizingly this time. "I am not especially concerned with your current state of health, joonam."

It was the first time he had used any sort of endearment for me. I was inclined to laugh at him, to brush it off, but I was frankly thankful to have someone on my side. It almost did not matter if his concern or friendliness was sincere. I would have appreciated just the appearance of it. I agreed to his plans and was about to retire back to my guest room when a commotion entered Nadir's house.

"Daroga! Did you hear what happened to the little accountant's little wife?—"

Erik came to a dead stopped at the room's doorway. His mask usually rendered him unreadable, but everything else in his posture suggested shock.

"Indeed," Nadir replied neutrally, "I have heard."

Erik crossed the room with sudden speed. He came to another abrupt stop directly in front of me. It was the first time I had actually been able to see his eyes. I have heard many a description given of them—uncanny, glittering gold, bizarre, yellow, ghost-color, what have you. They were brown. A very light, golden brown, and given to catching the light at odd moments, but brown nonetheless. And at that moment, they were frighteningly hard. He reached out, grasped my chin, and turned my head to look at the substantial bruise that had formed.

His fingers were cold, far too cold. I stayed very still.

"May I suggest that pianos are better companions than sultanas?" he said, his voice as cold as his hands.

I gave in to my first impulse. I laughed, just as I had laughed at the Shah.

Here is one last piece of not-really-wisdom for you, Shadi. When you grow old and look back on your life, you will realize that there are many turning points. They are sudden and usually only identifiable in retrospect, yet they are almost always the crucibles of our lives, the moments that melt us and remake us.

That moment in Nadir's parlor, with Erik's ice cold fingers on my face, was just such a point. I laughed, and in laughing turned my life in a new direction. I looked back at Erik and saw that his eyes had softened, and with that softening my fate was reformed.

I wonder if Nadir realized what was happening. I doubt Erik did. I certainly did not.

Until next time, joonam.

Mojgan Banu Khanum

Truth really is stranger than fiction. 'Lights Out' was a game Naser al-Din devised after the installation of electric lights in his palaces. The results were always bizarre and frequently brutal. I figured that Erik might be able to provide a little illumination a few decades in advance.