Daphne knelt beside me in front of the priest, the Shah, the Khanum, and a cluster of courtiers and eunuchs in the sun-drenched courtyard of the harem. I watched her watching me out of the corner of my eye, imitating my movements as I crossed myself and brought my hands together in front of my chest. Having guessed wrongly at her nationality it was too late to procure for her a minister of her own faith, but she followed along gamely, waiting for her turn to repeat her vows to a hideous stranger in a country thousands of miles from home. She was, as ever, composed, her posture erect and queenly, a hint of a smirk or smile playing across her lips. To see her you would have thought she was marrying the Shah himself.

My mind was still casting about for explanations for this turn of events and the willing bride elegantly posed at my side. Brainwashed victim or hired accomplice? Or something else entirely? I had no frame of reference for this woman. Still, her physical proximity was enough to return me to a state of euphoria.

Since we were not in church and without the trappings of the organ and choir, the ceremony was a brief one. In a very short space of time I found myself turning to stare into her jade green eyes, and repeating,

"Moi, Erik Marchand, je te prend, Daphne, pour être mon épouse,

pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant,

pour meilleur ou pour le pire,

pour la prospérité et la pauvreté,

dans la maladie et dans la santé,

pour aimer et chérir;

jusqu'à la mort nous sépare."

I realized too late that I had forgotten to ask for her surname. The priest looked to her, and began, "Moi, Daphne, je te prend..."

It quickly became clear that her proficiency in the French language was incomplete. Her eyes darting from him to me and back again, she stumbled through her part, and when she was finished she gave a little laugh, a merry sound such as one does not often hear on such a sober occasion. She laughed, and she looked on me, her new husband. As the priest prayed over us I felt almost dizzy.

Together we stood, man and wife. I offered her my hand, which she accepted, and this time I did not possess the courage to look down and gauge her reaction, even knowing as I did that the fearless little creature whom had just bound herself to me would no doubt still be smiling.

The experience did not become less surreal as we dined alongside the Shah and courtiers in the Great Hall. Several men clapped me on the back in a gesture of camaraderie the likes of which I was unaccustomed. Daphne, now my property and as such allowed outside of the harem for the first time, appeared delighted with the attention and the feasting in our honour. At one point I felt the faint, almost imperceptible brush of her leg against my own under the table. For once I drank my wine without worry of its contamination; swept along by the knowledge that it was no longer I at the helm of my own life. If the Khanum wanted me to die today, I would die. If she wished to reward me, I would be rewarded. She had won, and either way the outcome was glorious. For even if my new bride proved to be my assassin, I had finally and for the first time experienced joy.