Now that the Empress has left, she releases the soft-footed servants from their duties, and they melt away through the numerous doors. She will honor her promise to model for Avram. She will do it in the nude. She will do it now. Do it to spit in the face of the Ancient One who appeared again last night, naked as Eve, a flamelike tear visible under her veil on an otherwise featureless face. Before stepping into the devouring blaze, she plucked the burning tear off and tossed it at Darya, but instead of catching fire, Darya’s dress turned into an icy vise, stiff and irremovable and threatening to suffocate her. It is always something she is wearing in her dreams—a blouse, a cloak, a skirt—that the Ancient One transforms into a rigid, imprisoning curse. Today, Darya is not dressed in her everyday fineries but in simpler attire of linen and Mechlin lace. She tosses her sandals aside, steps out of her robe, unbuttons the mother-of-pearl buttons running the length of her flounced petticoats, and drops them at her feet.
