Dear Shadi,

Poets have imbued the seasons with much significance. And perhaps there is something to that. There are the seasons of the sun, which give us leave to plant, to reap, to rest. But fair spring and foul winter? Persephone rises and feeds the word, Persephone descends and desolates the world—either way, Persephone rules the world.

(I suppose that it was inevitable that I would turn pagan, given my long isolation from Islam and utter disinterest in Christianity.)

I spent but one winter of my life in Mazandaran. The magical colors of spring and summer were still there, but in subdued form. The fogs rolled in thickly, hiding entire neighborhoods from sight. And the eternal sentinel of the land, Damavand, rose up from the Alborz Mountains, unbelievably white, even against a washed-out sky.

In some ways, that one winter was as much a fairytale as my first summer had been. But I was no longer sure of my role in the story. It was certainly not that of the young bride reveling in her happy ending. Nor was I some cursed princess, though I suppose part of me did await the arrival of a hero.

If anything, I was the madwoman. I spent much of that winter rambling through the forests, something I would have never been allowed to do. But I didn't much care for allowances anymore. Grief and uncertainty had made me bold. I would not stand to be managed, even by as passive a hand as Khadija. I wanted to be alone, though a woman ought never to be so. And so I would leave without a word or a warning, and I would wander.

And on my wanderings, I was as insulated from the world by my thoughts as by Feridoon's old cashmere coats. I couldn't tell you what those thoughts were any more than I could tell you the color of the coats. I simply do not recall. Perhaps they were not important. Perhaps they were, but they certainly are no longer pertinent. What I most remember are the trees: the starkly bare alders, the evergreen boxwoods, the ruby buds of the ironwoods, the last yellowed oak leaves that refused to fall. These were my most constant companions, though not my only companions.

No, for my one real companion I had my counterpoint: the madman to my madwoman.

That is, I think, an unfair comparison. I was mad for a moment in time and no one suffered for my madness—not even myself. But poor Erik was mad most of the time and many suffered for. Himself most of all, I imagine. But I did not suffer for it, and so I think I often forget about it.

I certainly forgot about it on those winter walks.

I remember the first time we crossed paths—quite literally—in the forest just east of Nowshahr. (That is to say, in the woods somewhere between the Nowshahr Palace and Erik's palace.) I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings, but the sudden appearance of a man in a dark European-style overcoat was enough to make me take note.

Erik simply seemed confused.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Walking," I replied.

"Alone?"

I am sorry to say that my sense of humor, such as it is, has remained consistent over the years. I looked around me dramatically before turning back to Erik. "It would appear so."

"The Daroga would not be pleased," Erik reminded me sternly.

I had not considered that. I had not considered much of anything beyond the fact that I was comfortable with solitude in a way I had never expected to be. At first, I thought this might have been a legacy left over from Feridoon and his reserve, but I had slowly come to realize that it was really my preferences finally being asserted. I was really, truly alone—and I did not much mind it in that moment. It was in that spirit that I replied: "Well, then, the Daroga does not need to know."

Just when I thought I had Erik figured out—I was sure he would laugh at that statement—he surprised me again. He sighed. Not dramatically or theatrically, but quietly. Sincerely. "So, in the end, even you are something of a liar."

I did not know how to reply. I never knew how to reply to that Erik, the introspective Erik that stood apart from the rest of man and judged. "It's done without malice," I said. "Surely that counts for something?"

He took a long time about replying and I found myself wandering away. I soon realized that Erik was walking with me, though he moved almost silently. We did not speak much during that first walk nor on the one to follow. But eventually, I would make a comment and Erik would reply, or Erik would joke and I would laugh, or we would be quiet and the quiet would be companionable.

Eventually, we spoke more. Sometimes he would almost rave on a subject, launching off from one point and sticking to it for an hour, places and people and things rolling off his tongue as if he was reliving some memory moment-by-moment. Or, it would be just a few words, usually the simplest of them, said in a tone of quiet confession and then silence would follow. Piece by piece, I learned of a mother who taught him to read and let him play her piano, but who would burst into tears and flee every time she was occasioned to say his name. I learned of a father who was almost never to be seen, who might leave a book in reach of a boy, but who would then disappear again without a word. It was nothing like my own, comfortable childhood and was heartbreaking in its coldness. A few words were spoken of a childish fancy that came true (he ran away with a gypsy band) and the places that followed—never one place for long. It seemed like he picked up skills like other men might reach down and pick up a piece of paper, but he could never pick up friends.

There were times when he would break off in the middle of a sentence, usually as a story started to turn truly upsetting, and declare, "I don't remember the rest." He would be silent for a moment, and then simply ask, "shall I sing for you, Mojgan?"

I could never refuse that, not with his whiskey brown eyes and brandywine voice.

It was almost impossible for me to fathom that he was just a few years older than I was. I, who had never left my village before seventeen. I felt like I had become a woman in the time since then, but even so, my life was a mere running stitch compared to Erik's tapestry. If only it had been a beautiful tapestry! I would have liked to have been of more comfort to him, but his losses and injuries were too great, even if the words he used were few. There was little I could say, so I listened. And listened, and listened more. And it seemed that there was some good that came from listening. He rarely left my company in the same raving mood he would sometimes start in.

We would speak of my life, as well. My tragedies were lighthearted in comparison to his happiest memories, but he gave them rapt attention. There were a few things we did not touch on even then: the harem for one. Feridoon for another.

We should not have spent so much time together, and in such a way. It was outside the bounds of propriety. (Though, let us be honest, winter in the woods is not the most comfortable place for any real impropriety to occur.) But Erik existed as something quite separate from polite society. I don't think it ever occurred to him that the same rules that governed the lives of ordinary men should ever apply to him. As for me, I suppose I knew better. But said grief had made me bold. It took me out of myself, and where I might have at one time been careful, I no longer cared. Another rash decision I must be thankful for.

I often wonder how much Erik remembered of the time we spent together in Mazandaran. In later years, he would mention it only in passing, eager as he was to forget the other goings-on of that time.

That's right, you like the cold, he would say. Or he would comment on the fact that I had learned to play piano, ignoring the fact that he had shown me the basics. Small things—and that was all. Anything or one connected to the greater events of the era like the Shah, the Sultana, even the palace—these became taboo subjects. Once spoken of, perhaps twice, and then never again.

I cannot say his reticence bothered me, for I certainly did not care to dwell on such things either.

But now I must—for how else will you learn the truth? If truth is what you are interested in. I have been writing these letters to you for months now, and I frankly do not know what it is that you want. Sometimes I think that I ought to prettify the past—gentrify, as it were, to make it more palatable to the genteel lady you have become.

But what would be the point?

Now for that winter, the specter that loomed large was the Sultana. With the Shah gone and the higher ranking ladies either following him or dispersing to their own estates, the Sultana ruled Mazandaran. 'Ruled' may not be the correct word. She did not have the political sway to influence the administration of the government, but she did have money and a certain charisma that allowed her to dictate fashion. And let us face a simple truth: evil is all around us. She was so strange, so unpredictable, so malevolent. Yes, it unnerved many, but it attracted others. Even Erik had mistakenly believed that he had found a kindred spirit in her, though really he had not. Erik was not bad hearted, though he did bad things. But the Sultana—

I simply do not know. How can I claim to look into the heart of another person and say for sure if evil is entwined with their very being? Yet, there were times when I looked into her eyes and I could have sworn—both then in the moment and now after decades of reflection—that I was standing next to the Devil.

There were other things I saw, as well: blood and misery and casual cruelty that was simply inhuman. I came from a family of farmers. We had servants, slaves, and animals. I knew how to treat them and how not to treat them. But how the Sultana dealt with those under her control…

Well, I suppose I will prettify the past a little for you. You do not need the nightmares.

No one needs those nightmares.

I'm glad Erik forgot as much as he did. He lived the nightmares more than I did. He created some of them, but I did not see most of those.

Though, there was one nightmare of his creation that I did happen to experience. It was another thing we pointedly did not speak of in later years.

I was about to write that I had stumbled into it, but I would hazard a guess that I was pushed into it.

It was late winter. The solstice had passed and Erik was working wildly on his palace. It was magnificent—and it was nearly done. Of these two noteworthy elements, the latter was undoubtedly the most spectacular. Erik had revolutionized myriads of construction techniques. It was not a revolution by design. I think it was mostly instinct. Erik saw the world differently. He was aware of this, most of the time. But with mechanics and mathematics and the like, it never occurred to him that there was another way to work. It came to him like breathing—no, like singing—and it was brilliant.

Even Erik's detractors were impressed.

How could they not be? I can still see the white marble spires standing above the sea, the blue tiles tracing elegant arches like a lover's finger, the glint of gold reflecting the weak winter sun back a thousand times over.

"The Shah won't know what to do with it," Erik once said, his voice free from bitterness. "He may have commissioned it, but I did not build it for him."

"Then who did you build it for?" I asked.

"A dream," he said.

It was easy to believe. It certainly looked like a dream. But like all dreams, it had the seeds of a nightmare in it. One only needed the proper catalyst for the nightmare to sprout and thrive.

The seed was a room. The catalyst was a woman.

Erik and the Sultana had been going through one of their chilly periods, but she did come when she heard the palace was nearly done.

I was already there drinking tea with Nadir and Erik when she arrived.

"Well! You're already holding a proper court!" She said. She sounded—well, she sounded far saner than she usually did.

Erik was tense for some minutes, but he soon found his equilibrium. And for a strange moment in time, we all sat about in a biting sea breeze, chatting like friends. Only Nadir looked troubled, though I suspect we all felt so. I know I did, but it was in a general way. I had spent much time in the Sultana's company. And while I cannot say I came away from that time unscathed I had thus far been unscarred.

So I did not think much of it when the Sultana asked me, in her girlchild voice, to walk the grounds with her. Nor did I think much of it when she asked me to keep her company for the rest of the day, or when she assured the Daroga that she would see me safely returned home later that evening.

So Nadir went off, worried but not fearful. Erik went about his business, leaving us in favor of looking over furniture. And I walked alongside the Sultana, anticipating a day of black humor.

And, oh, her humor was black that day. As soon as our parties had separated, she dug into most every subject with unparalleled viciousness. I listened, but I did not laugh. I never laughed—that was one trick of flattery I could never master.

Evening came quickly and the Sultana's coterie prepared to depart. But we still walked, the two of us with some guards besides, following blueprints that Erik had given the Sultana to help her navigate the myriad hidden passages. We were nearly to the dining room where we had agreed to meet some of her other ladies, who were not so keen to skulk through narrow passages. Not that I had been particularly fond of the idea myself, but the Sultana had made in impossible for me to decline gracefully. I wish I could say I had felt some sense of foreboding, but that was not the case. I was much too busy trying to read Erik's cramped handwriting and keep up with the Sultana's incessant prattle.

We reached an intersection and I pointed the Sultana in the direction of the dining room. Just few steps, the release of a hidden latch, and then perhaps I could go home for the evening.

"I think he's grown very fond of you," the Sultana said, standing still in the cramped corridor. She made the word sound foul. Two of her guards, one in front of us and one behind, held torches, and the smoke burned my eyes.

I did not really reply, merely urged her to head left.

"I want to see what lies in the other direction," the Sultana said.

"It just says 'workroom' on the map."

She snapped her fingers. "Of course! It's Erik's workroom, you know."

I didn't know, but for I moment I rather hoped it was. Because she was right—Erik had grown a little fond of me. I had been kind to him—I liked him—and it would take more than a fit of pique from the Sultana to break that. I hoped.

"I know you walk together," she continued, "and you talk. Oh, God, how you talk."

Well, Erik may not have been inclined to hurt me, but I could not say the same for the woman next to me. I tried again to urge the Sultana in the direction of the dining room. But when I stepped past the Sultana, the head guard stopped me.

And I felt—

Well, not fear. It was a peculiar feeling, one of absolute certainty. I saw Feridoon at my feet, lifeless and bloody, and I knew I was about to die. And for what? Crossing paths with a madman?

No, befriending a madman. I had always known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if Erik was spending his time with Nadir and I then he was not spending it with the Sultana.

You were the good in Persia and she was the bad, and where you met I became hopelessly muddled. He said that once, one of his few direct statements about the Sultana in the decades after he left Persia. For Erik, it was always either – or. It had to be. He could never quite manage to reconcile shades of grey, though he was entirely drawn in them.

"You really should see Erik's workroom," the Sultana said, sounding to all the world like she was speaking of new fabrics or edible fancies. "It's splendid! Surely you've heard of it?" her voice dropped low and her veil crushed against my cheek. "It's full of mirrors."

Of course I had heard of the room of mirrors. Nadir had personally told me about it in a conversation that was part confession and part warning.

And foolish girl that I was, I rather discounted it—for it would never happen to me, now would it?

The guard opened the trapdoor, but the Sultana pushed me.

In the dark and silence, which seemed unending, I listened to my heartbeat. It said: Erik will find you. Erik will find you. Erik will find you.

And I believed my heartbeat—until the lights turned on.

Well, in my heart of hearts, I had hoped for some hero to force the sun to rise in my life again and dispel the myriad shadows around me.

I could have laughed at the irony, but I did not. Instead, I closed my eyes, reached for a wall, sat down once I found a corner, and waited.

Until next time, my dear, be well.

Mojgan Banu Khanum

Postscript: It was blue. Feridoon's old coat was peacock blue with gold and black trimming. And it is important, because it was beautiful.

a/n: I really waffled on this one—originally, I intended to write this from Erik's POV, but it just wasn't coming together. So, Mojgan. We just need to trust that she has Erik figured out well enough to properly communicate his mindset.

…I'm seriously starting to rethink my preference for unreliable narrators.