s working on your book to rebel against you。 I don’t

know　why　he　suddenly　began　to　do　this。　Perhaps　out　of　jealousy；　perhaps　he’d

e under Satan’s influence。 And the other miniaturists also heard how

determined　Elegant　Effendi　was　to　destroy　us　all。　You　can　imagine　how　each　of

them　grew　frightened　and　succumbed　to　suspicions　as　I　myself　had。　Because

one　of　their　lot　was　cornered；　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　by　Elegant　Effendi—

who　had　incited　him　against　you；　us；　our　book；　as　well　as　against　illustrating；

painting and all else we believe in—that artist fell into a panic； killing that

scoundrel　and　tossing　his　body　into　a　well。”

“Scoundrel？”

“Elegant　Effendi　was　an　ill…natured；　ill…bred　traitor。　Villain！”　I　shouted　as　if

he　were　before　me　in　the　room。

Silence。　Did　he　fear　me？　I　was　afraid　of　myself。　It　was　as　if　I’d　succumbed　to

somebody　else’s　will　and　thoughts；　yet；　this　was　not　wholly　unpleasant。

“Who　was　this　miniaturist　who　fell　into　a　panic　like　you　and　the　illustrator

from　Isfahan？　Who　killed　him？”

“I　don’t　know；”　I　said。

179

Yet　I　wanted　him　to　infer　from　my　expression　that　I　was　lying。　I　realized　that

I’d made a grave error in ing here； but I wasn’t going to succumb to

feelings of guilt and regret。 I could see that Enishte Effendi was growing

suspicious of me and