Marianne was waiting in the hall dressed in the same fashion, except that her ferej was of a deep violet blue and she was not wearing the veil. With Jolival beside her, she walked down to the carriage where the other woman stood waiting for her. When she saw that there was a man, and a European, with the one she had come to seek, the woman did not speak but only bowed and held out a scroll of paper, tied and sealed with blue. Then she straightened and stood quietly waiting for the contents to be read.

"What's this?" the vicomte said crossly, taking a lantern from the hands of an attendant. "Does it need all these papers for what you are about to do?"

Jolival had been in the worst of tempers all day long. He loathed everything about this expedition of Marianne's but most of all it made him horribly afraid for her. The thought that the young friend who was almost a daughter to him was about to put her health and perhaps even her life in the hands of probably incompetent foreigners horrified him. He had made no attempt to hide his dislike of the project or the alarm it caused him.

"What you are doing is madness," he protested. "I was ready to help you in Corfu, when this damned pregnancy was barely started, but now I'm wholly against it. Not as a matter of principle, which is beside the point, but simply because it is dangerous!"

Nothing could budge him from this position and Marianne had wasted her time and her persuasions. Arcadius was almost ready to go to any lengths to stop her going to Rebecca. It had even crossed his mind to tell Latour-Maubourg everything and have the embassy put into something like a state of siege, or else to lock Marianne up in her bedchamber with guards below the windows. But the ambassador would probably have thought that he was mad, and in any case it would be cruel to upset the unfortunate diplomat yet again.

Certainly the ambassador had not been particularly overjoyed to learn that the Porte was considering an armistice, but the news had not really surprised him. He had, on the other hand, been sure that the spontaneous friendship which had sprung up between the Sultan Valideh and the Princess Sant'Anna augured most favorably for his own future relations with the court, especially since this friendship had shown itself in an invitation to spend several days with the sultana at her villa at Scutari.

Compelled to abandon his violent projects, the poor vicomte had next endeavored to persuade Marianne to let him go with her, and here again she had found it extremely difficult to convince him that it would not do. She had to tell him over and over again that one of the Valideh's most trusted confidantes was to accompany her and guard against any possible accident, while the presence of another European might lead Rebecca to refuse her services altogether and so ruin all. What was more, she said, the house of a midwife was no place for a man.

Defeated but not convinced, Jolival had muttered irritably all day, his temper growing noticeably worse with the approach of evening.

Marianne, meanwhile, had been scanning the thick parchment scroll. It was an official document, inscribed in Arabic characters and sealed with the imperial tughra, which she naturally did not understand. But attached to it was a smaller letter, written on silky vellum in a delicate, flowing hand which spoke of the long hours spent at a convent desk acquiring it. The faint scent of hyacinths that came from it recalled to the reader the blue pavilion of the previous night.

Writing in a charmingly old-world style reminiscent of Versailles and powdered heads, Nakshidil disclosed to her "dearly beloved cousin" the contents of the larger document, which was nothing more nor less than the title of ownership to the Sea Witch.

The Valideh had purchased the American brig from the reis Achmet, and she was now the sole property of the Princess Sant'Anna. More than that, she was to be transferred to the naval dockyard of Kassim Pasha, where she would be thoroughly overhauled under the personal supervision of the Ottoman admiral, the Kapodan Pasha, before being handed over to her new owner.

"Our own naval carpenters being unaccustomed to the ways of your great western ships," the Valideh had written, not without a touch of humor, "we have begged Mr. Canning to procure for us the services of some of the English carpenters employed on repairs to vessels putting in to our harbors to give our men the necessary instruction in order to restore this ship of ours to her former condition…"

This admirable example of officialdom at work succeeded in dissipating Jolival's ill humor. He began to laugh and Marianne found herself laughing with him.

"If there was ever any doubt that this imperial kinswoman of yours is still a Frenchwoman at heart, this would be enough to do away with it," the vicomte said at last. "Only someone born of the same country as Voltaire and Surcouf could have thought of anything so ingenious as getting the English ambassador to refit an enemy vessel, and force him to foot the bill. For Mr. Canning can scarcely be so curmudgeonly as to send in his account. Really, it's too good! Long live the sultan's royal mother! She's a credit to her family."

Marianne said nothing. She was glad to see him looking happy again. She herself was deeply touched by Nakshidil's gesture, for with her wholly feminine instinct the Creole had put her finger unerringly on the very thing that meant most to her young cousin: Jason's ship, the thing he loved as much and maybe even more than the woman whose image she bore.

By making this gift with such delicacy and such truly royal generosity, and at the very moment when Marianne was on the point of facing fresh dangers for the sake of her lover, the Valideh had made it a symbol of her sanction, a sign of encouragement and moral support. It was a wonderful way of telling her: "You are going to suffer but in the midst of your suffering you will remember this ship, because while you have her you will hold the key to the future and to all your hopes in the palm of your hand. Death cannot touch one so powerfully armed…"

Marianne closed her eyes, seeing herself already on board the restored Sea Witch, putting out from Constantinople with all sails flying and scouring every port in the world in search of her one true captain. Suddenly, the outlook was much wider and brighter. When the sun rose tomorrow there would be great plans for the future crowding around her bed to help her back to health, but already, mistress of the American brig and strong in the backing of her powerful kinswoman, Marianne was beginning to feel that the world was hers.

She opened her eyes and bestowed on Jolival a smile so radiant that he had not the heart to utter another word of protest.

"I must go," she said. "We've wasted too much time already. Keep these precious papers for me. I know they will be safe with you and I can't take them with me where I'm going. Kiss me goodbye now—"

With a warm rush of affection, he put his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks. Suddenly, he was feeling happier. The fear that had been gnawing at his stomach all day was fading. Miraculously, the letter had set him thinking, like Marianne herself, that nothing really dreadful could happen to a woman with such forces to protect her.

"Take care of yourself," he said simply. "We'll see if God will still listen to the prayers of an unbeliever that all may go well."

A calm voice spoke suddenly from behind the white veil that hid the Turkish woman's face.

"All will be well," it said. "The Jewess knows that she will be beaten to death if there should be any accident, so do not worry." In another moment, Marianne was seated in the cushioned araba and leaving the onetime Franciscan convent. The mule began pulling strongly up the steep, roughly cobbled street. A chill wind whistled down the narrow thoroughfare, parting the curtains of the vehicle. Marianne's companion snatched up a white muslin veil and hurriedly covered the girl's face with it.

"It's better so," she said as the other put up a cautious hand to her face. "Our customs can be very useful when one wishes to escape notice or recognition."

"No one knows me here. I have little to fear—"

"Look—there is the night watchman beginning his rounds. He has only to catch sight of an unveiled woman in an araba to set a whole host of unlikely rumors afoot."

A tall, thin man in a rough linen caftan with a broad belt and a brimless red felt hat with a piece of dirty muslin tied around it had just come around a corner. He had a lantern in one hand and with the other he was tapping the pavement at regular intervals with a long metal-tipped staff. As he passed, he glanced idly through the curtains, which were still blowing in the wind, at the occupants of the araba. Marianne needed no telling to hold the veil close across her face. She shivered.

"It's cold tonight, and yesterday it was stifling—"

The other woman shrugged indifferently.

"It is the meltemi, the cold wind off the Caucasian snows. When it blows the whole city freezes, but the weather here changes very swiftly. And now, let me introduce myself. My name is Bulut, which means cloud."

Marianne smiled, liking this cloud. The ferej could not disguise the fact that she was plump and comfortable, and her bright eyes twinkled merrily above her white veil and did not avoid one's gaze.

"I know nothing of your country's manners. How ought I to address you?"

"I am called Bulut Hanum. Hanum signifies 'madam' and is used in conjunction with the first name. With Your Highness's permission, I shall address you in the same way to avoid attracting attention. Rebecca must not know who it is that she has in her care tonight."