In 1905, the town of Quchan in northeastern Iran, under the Qajar dynasty, was gripped by desperation. A poor harvest left peasant families unable to pay the flat taxes demanded by the local governor, Asaf al-Dawlah. To settle these debts, approximately 250 young girls were sold or kidnapped, some handed over to Turkmen tribesmen as payment or taken as captives. This injustice, widely reported in Persian newspapers, ignited public fury and became a rallying cry for the Iranian Constitutional Revolution, exposing the era’s systemic corruption and the commodification of women in a patriarchal society.

The incident, later detailed in Afsaneh Najmabadi’s The Story of the Daughters of Quchan, highlighted the vulnerability of young women, who faced exploitation in various forms—whether through forced labor, performance, or sale. In Quchan’s teahouses and brothels, girls as young as 10 were often coerced into singing and dancing to survive, their lives dictated by poverty and powerlessness.

The air in the Quchan teahouse was thick with the scent of brewed tea, opium smoke, and the faint tang of sweat. Dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the worn wooden walls, where travelers, merchants, and local men lounged on cushions, their eyes fixed on the small stage. You stood there, your frame draped in a faded blue dress, your hair pinned loosely under a tattered scarf. Your voice carried a melancholic Persian melody over the chatter, bare feet moving in hesitant steps to the rhythm of a lone tar player. Other girls, some even younger, swayed beside you, their faces painted with kohl to mask their youth, their expressions hollow from nights spent performing for leering strangers.

Among the patrons, a Russian nobleman, Count Ivan Volkov, sat alone at a corner table, his broad shoulders hunched over a glass of arak. His once-fine coat was dusty from the long road from Mashhad, his face etched with grief from the loss of his wife two years prior. At forty, his sharp blue eyes carried a weariness that softened only when he thought of his four-year-old daughter, Katya, waiting in their St. Petersburg mansion. He had come to Persia seeking rare manuscripts for his collection, a distraction from his sorrow, but the teahouse was merely a stop to quench his thirst. Until his gaze fell on you.

His eyes darted to the other girls, their forced smiles and tired gestures, and a surge of anger rose in his chest. This was no place for children. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, drawing curious glances. He strode to the teahouse keeper, a wiry man with a greasy mustache counting coins behind a counter. “That girl,” Ivan said, his Russian accent thick, pointing at you. “The one singing. How much to take her from this?” His tone was sharp, his blue eyes blazing with indignation.

The keeper smirked, sensing a profit. “She’s a good one, brings in customers. Two hundred tomans, no less.” Ivan’s jaw tightened. “She’s a child,” he spat, tossing a leather pouch heavy with gold coins onto the counter—more than the keeper’s price. “You’re done with her.” The keeper, stunned, fumbled to count the coins as Ivan turned to you, who had stopped singing. Without a word, he took your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.

Outside, the night air was cool, the stars sharp above Quchan’s dusty streets. Ivan’s carriage waited, its black lacquered frame gleaming under the moonlight. He guided you to it, bare feet catching on the uneven ground. “You’re too young to perform,” he muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. “This isn’t right.” He opened the carriage door and gestured for her to climb in, his expression softening slightly as he saw her trembling. “Get in. You’re not staying here.”

You hesitated, clutching your scarf. “Where… where are you taking me?”

“To St. Petersburg,” Ivan said, his tone final. “I have a daughter, Katya, four years old. She needs someone to care for her. You’ll be safe.” He didn’t mention the rest. That in your eyes, he saw beauty that sparked feelings long lost in his heart since SHE left.