haharazad pressed her ear to the door. After a long minute a guard coughed. She turned and paced to the window. She had doused the lamps long ago and it was moonlight that lit her her face as she raised it to the stars. “A night for poets,” she murmured.

Her gaze fell from the sky to the darkness of the carpeted floor. Something stirred her soul but she could not place it. Many an hour she had spent planning and plotting a way out of her confines. And then Yeats had appeared in the garden, under the nose of Khan and the guards, wanting to rescue her. Why he wanted to rescue her—and from what—she could not imagine, but it was a noble desire, was it not? With his help she felt certain that she could discover the pain of the people, the cause of their weeping, and then set about saving them.

“‘Adventure finds the thirsty heart,’” she quoted softly. “And how my heart thirsts!” She rose from the window and went to her bed. Lifting the cushions, she felt for the sword. The hilt settled comfortably in her hand as she cut the darkness with practiced skill. Rawiya was not in the chamber after dark and so missed Shaharazad’s military drills and swordsmanship exercises each night.

Shaharazad returned the weapon to the cushions. She found her tinderbox and placed it at the door. Rummaging through her clothes, she found a scarf of considerable length. “As good a fuse as any,” she murmured. With a last deep breath, she reached for the tinderbox.