t edge of Black’s

dagger；　then　inserting　it　into　the　space　between　door　and　jamb　and　levering　it

with all our weight； we broke the lock。 We were met by the stench of

dampness；　dirt　and　loneliness；　which　had　accumulated　over　years。　By　the　light

of the lamp； we noticed an unmade bed； sashes tossed randomly upon

cushions； vests； two turbans； undershirts； Nimetullah Effendi the

Nakshibendi’s　Persian　dictionary；　a　wooden　turban　stand；　broadcloth；　needle

and thread； a small copper pan full of apple peels； quite a few cushions； a

velvet　bedspread；　his　paints；　his　brushes　and　all　of　his　supplies。　I　was　on　the

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verge of rifling through the writing paper； the layer upon layer of carefully

trimmed　Hindustan　paper；　and　the　illuminated　pages　on　his　small　desk；　but　I

restrained myself both because Black was more enthusiastic than I； and

because I knew full well how a master miniaturist would incur nothing but

bad　luck　if　he　went　through　the　belongings　of　a　less　talented　miniaturist。　Olive

is　not　as　talented　as　is　assumed；　he’s　merely　eager。　He　tries　to　cover　up　for　his

lack　of　talent　with　adoration　of　the　old　masters。　The　old　legends；　however；　only

rouse　an　artist’s　imagination；　it’s　the　hand　that　does　the　painting。

As　Black　was　searching　meticulously　through　all　the