The first night Scheherazade told her tales to the prince, her empty hands drove her to distraction. She realized that she needed something to occupy her physical self while her mind spun stories of wonder.

The next day she journeyed to the marketplace, where she gathered yarn and needles before returning to attend the prince. Scheherazade chose yarn for a shawl as soft and dark as the Arabian nights of which she spoke. She knit her stories into the very fabric, helping herself to focus as she bartered for her life, and the lives of the women of the harem.

Night after night the prince watched the shawl take shape as he listened to Scheherazade's stories. It was as light as the breeze that wafted through the courtyard, as lovely as the scent of his wife's perfume. Scheherazade captured the prince's imagination with tales of talking fish, magic lamps and the wily genies inside them, and of a fanciful Arabian castle. The shawl flowed across their bed as her voice flowed through the room, rich and glorious.

By the time the shawl was finished, many nights had passed. The shawl was no longer the only thing the prince watched with wonder. Scheherazade's magic had knitted together the prince's mind and heart, as well as a shawl that was a tale in its own right.

Scheherazade, though, knew that no story has an end — all threads in the tapestry of life are joined together. She took a bead from the royal robes that each executed wife had so briefly worn, and she strung them on the fringe of the shawl, a golden remembrance of events not to be forgotten.