“An admirable position,” Colin said.

“I cannot stand to see anyone suffer what I have. But when I think of Richard... Do you really think it wise to fuel his belief that the Ottomans have arrested the wrong man?”

“I’ve seen nothing that suggests he’s guilty,” Colin said. “And if he’s not—”

Mr. Sutcliffe shook his head and held up a hand. “I want my friend to have peace, and I’m full of fear that this investigation will give him nothing but the opposite.”

“How can he know peace until he finds out what happened to his daughter?” I asked.

“You think it’s possible to determine that?”

“It’s impossible to say at the moment,” Colin said. “Best case would be finding some physical evidence that links a suspect to the crime.”

“Wouldn’t that already have been apparent? Surely the guards would have seen it that night?”

“Oversights are made with horrifying frequency,” my husband said.

“So it’s not too late?” Mr. Sutcliffe asked.

“Not necessarily,” Colin replied, his voice all breezy confidence. “We’re taking every possible measure.”

“I can’t see the old boy hurt further. This is the sort of pain that can ruin a man.”

“I don’t think he’s verging on that territory,” I said.

“No? He’s coming completely unhinged and making more mistakes at his work than the ambassador will be able to tolerate for long. I assure you, Lady Emily, my concerns are well-founded. I’m doing all I can to help, but there are limits.”

“You’re a good friend,” I said.

“I’m far too familiar with his pain,” Mr. Sutcliffe said, “and hope that prolonging this investigation won’t make it harder for him. He’s been through quite enough.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “And in an attempt to speed the process along, I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I’m expected at Yıldız.”

“I wish you all luck,” Mr. Sutcliffe said. “Physical evidence, Lady Emily. I’ll be crossing fingers that you find some.”

I thanked him, gave Colin a quick kiss, and stepped off the patio onto a waiting boat. Once again, the ride was interminable to my churning stomach, set in motion this time not only by the rough water, but by anxiety. I’d sent a note to Perestu, who had arranged for me to go to the hamam, agreeing that it might persuade the concubines I was someone they could trust. She’d promised to send English-speaking girls who knew Ceyden to talk to me. The prospect of bathing with untold numbers of total strangers was horrific, but I hoped to uncover some information of use.

Inside the harem, I followed a guard to the concubines’ hamam, where I was handed off to a bath attendant, an elderly woman who spoke no English but managed to communicate to me that her name was Melek. She ushered me into a tiny dressing room, pantomiming actions that could only suggest I was to remove my clothing. In a matter of moments, she had whisked my dress over my head and turned her attentions to my corset. I was two shades from mortification, a condition not helped in the least when I realized that the towel—tiny and made from the thinnest-possible cotton—she was handing me would provide all the cover I was to get. She slipped wooden-soled clogs onto my feet and motioned for me to follow her.

Hobbling behind her, I focused on keeping my feet from sliding on the slick marble floor while at the same time gripping my toes lest the slippers fly off. She opened a wooden door and led me into a large, domed room made entirely of gray marble. The temperature was warmer than in the outer chamber, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. Evenly spaced washbasins lined the perimeter, their faucets fashioned in elaborately patterned bronze. Marble benches ran continuously between the sinks, and on them sat more than a dozen women of the harem, all of them completely unclothed.

So shocked was I by this sight that I did not notice my attendant pulling my less than adequate towel away from me, leaving me in the same vulnerable state. I leapt for the nearest bench, falling onto it in a manner lacking any and all grace. Melek picked up a silver bowl, filled it in the basin, and dumped steaming water over my head. She repeated this several times before handing it to me and motioning for me to continue myself.

With a smile so weak as to be all but nonexistent, I dipped the bowl into the sink, sending water spilling over the sides. There were no drains. The water ran into a trough in the floor and disappeared beneath a wall, the sound of its travels dancing through echoes of the bouncing hum of the faucets. The warm stone felt good against my back, but there was no part of me finding even slim comfort in the situation. Other than the sound of water, the room appeared silent until I began to listen with focused attention. All around me, the women were whispering to one another, leaning forward to circumvent the basins, heads bent together as they spoke, coming apart when they lifted their bowls above them.

I looked at my arms, astonished to find that even my limbs had blushed crimson, and dropped my head back against the wall, ashamed of myself. Much though I wanted to throw myself into the local culture and behave nothing like the typical Englishwoman, I was failing miserably at the hamam. Still holding my now full bowl, I clenched my teeth and poured the water over my head. Bound and determined to enjoy myself, I dunked the bowl back into the sink and sloshed the contents onto my hair, which, thanks to Melek, was hanging loose down my back.

Meg would be beyond horrified when she saw me.

A petite blonde sat at the basin next to mine and began dousing herself. “I understand we are to be kind to you,” she said. “An unusual directive.”

“Is it?” I planted my elbows on my knees and rested my chin on them, trying to hide my body.

“You should relax.” She tipped her head back and poured more water. I looked away, focusing on the floor. The marble, a superior grade, better than any I’d seen in England, shimmered in the soft light but was not enough to keep my attention. I tried the ceiling instead, counting the small circular windows cut into it and then analyzing the color of the sky, not quite cerulean. My neighbor’s laughter floated into my false reverie. “Is it so taxing?”

“Taxing?” I asked, forcing myself to meet her clear eyes.

“I have heard stories of the West, of the European courts. Didn’t believe them, but perhaps I should have. Is everyone in England so tense?”

This made me smile. “Yes, actually.”

“Tedious.” She pushed her hands against the bench, straightening her arms and arching her back.

“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious... yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.

“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”

“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”

“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“You don’t feel... restricted?”

“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”

“But you can’t leave?”

“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”

“You know her?”

“Her room is near mine.”

“Are you friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”

“In the harem?”

“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”

“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.

“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”

“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.

“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”

“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”

“He brings us her medicines.”

“I understand he knew Ceyden well.”

“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She was impossible to escape.”

“What can you tell me of their relationship?”

“It wasn’t so unusual. As I said, we’ve no one to flirt with but the guards. Most of us have a favorite.”

“Was she as close to him as Roxelana is?”

“Not at all. But Ceyden was less discreet and drew too much attention to them.”

“Did he do anything to help her get the sultan’s notice?” I asked.

“He let her believe he did, but I never saw anything that suggested he’d succeeded. Jemal’s a pleasant enough distraction,” she said. “But I wouldn’t consider him reliable.”

Melek had returned and motioned for me to follow her, putting a stop to our conversation with a sharp shake of her head. I stood, unsteady on the ill-fitting wooden clogs, and shuffled behind her to a large, octagonal marble platform in the middle of the room. Following the lead of the women who were already there, I lay down, resting my head on a small pillow, my heart racing.

Melek pulled a mohair mitt onto her hand and began scrubbing my skin with an earnest vigor, so hard that it almost hurt, leaving no inch unpolished, fingertips to toes, until I was tingling. I flipped onto my stomach and she continued with my back, pausing to show me the horrific amount of residue that had collected on the mitt. When she’d finished, she had me stand and soaked me with water before helping me to lie back down. Next came a gentle massage, another rinse, and another scrub. This time, instead of the mitt, she used a long, tail-like brush, which she rubbed with soap. As she moved it over my body, it left behind inches of fine lather. More rinsing followed, and now when I stood up, my self-consciousness had started to fade, but I kept my eyes closed, wanting neither to see the other women nor to notice them watching me.