enough—you’ll forever wonder what I was going to say。 Please； move the blade away slightly。” I did so。 “Master Osman； who followed your every step and your every breath since childhood； who happily watched your God…given talent bloom into artistry like a spring flower under his care； has now turned his back on you in order to save his workshop and its style； to which he has devoted his entire life。” “I recounted three parables to you the day we buried Elegant Effendi so you might know how disgusting this thing they call ”style‘ truly is。“ “Those stories pertained to a miniaturist’s individual style；” said Black carefully； “whereas Master Osman is concerned with preserving the style of the entire workshop。” He explained how the Sultan attached great importance to finding the murderer of Elegant Effendi and his Enishte； how He’d even let them inspect the Royal Treasury to this end； and how Master Osman was using this opportunity to sabotage his Enishte’s book and punish those who betrayed him by imitating the Europeans。 Black added that based on style； Master Osman suspected Olive was responsible for the horse with the clipped nostrils； but as Head Illuminator； he was convinced of Stork’s guilt and would turn him over to the executioners。 I could sense he was telling the truth under the pressure of my sword； and I felt like kissing him because he gave himself over to what he was saying like a child。 What I heard didn’t worry me； having Stork 394 out of the way meant I’d bee Head Illuminator after Master Osman’s death—may God grant him long life。 I wasn’t disturbed that what he said might happen； but by the possibility that it might not。 Reading between the lines of Black’s account； I was able to glean that Master Osman was willing not only to sacrifice Stork； but me as well。 Considering this incredible possibility made my heart quicken and drew me toward the horror of plete abandonment felt by a child who’s suddenly lost his father。 Each time this came to mind； I had to restrain myself from cutting Black’s throat。 I didn’t attempt to argue the point with Black or myself： Why should the fact that we made a few foolish illustrations inspired by European masters lower us to the level of traitors？ Once again； I thought that behind Elegant’s death stood Stork and Olive and their schemes against me。 I removed the sword from Black’s throat。 “Let’s go to Olive’s house together； and search it from top to bottom；” I said。 “If the last picture is with him； at least we’ll know whom to fear。 If not； we’ll take him with us as support and go on to raid Stork’s house。” I told him to trust me and that his dagger was enough weaponry for the two of us。 I apologized for not even having offered him a glass of linden tea。 As I lifted the oil lamp from the floor； we both stared meaningfully at the cushion upon which I’d flattened him。 I approached him with the lamp in my hand and told him how the ever…so…faint cut on his throat would be a mark of our friendship。 He bled only slightly。 The motion made by the Erzurumis and those pursuing them could still be heard on the streets； but no one noticed us。 We were quick to arrive at Olive’s house。 We knocked on the courtyard door； the door of the house； and impatiently upon the shutters。 Nobody was home； we made so much noise that we were certain he wasn’t sleeping。 Black gave voice to what we both were thinking： “Shall we go inside？” I twisted the metal loop of the door lock using the blunt 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 395 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 chests and boxes； going as far as to check the bottoms of laundry baskets； without touching anything I glanced at Olive’s Bursa towels； his ebony b； his dirty bath hand towel； his rosewater bottles； a ridiculous waist cloth with an Indian block…print pattern； quilted jackets； a heavy； dirty women’s robe with a slit； a dented copper tray； filthy carpets and other furnishings too cheap and slovenly for the money he earned。 Olive was either very stingy and salting his money away or he was squandering it somehow… “The house of a murderer； precisely；” I said later。 “There isn’t even a prayer rug。” But this wasn’t what I was thinking。 I concentrated。 “These are the belongings of a man who doesn’t know how to be happy…” I said。 Yet； in a corner of my mind； I thought sadly about how misery and proximity to the Devil nursed painting。 “Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be unhappy；” said Bl