I was still setting out my stall this morning when I looked up and he was simply there, across the market, not doing anything, not even looking at me the way you'd think. I didn't wait to find out what the look meant. Left everything on the table, paid too much for the fastest horse in the yard, and rode. The town went behind me under nutmeg and cayenne and bergamot, sharp, almost too much, like my own fear had a smell of its own. By dark the road had gone quiet and it was iris, violet, cool — then leather worn soft from the saddle, tonka, vanilla, and I knew Samarra was close because the smell told me before my eyes did. Someone else finished this page. I did not threaten the merchant. I was surprised to find him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight, in Samarra. I do not remember writing that. I do not remember much after the market.
