I had to look, though, when she took my hand to lead me across the room to a small wooden door, through which she ushered me. The room beyond it was small, verging on claustrophobic, and radiated a heat that reminded me of the searing burn that accosted a person standing on the Acropolis in Athens on the hottest of summer days. I sat on the marble bench that lined the circumference of the space and leapt up almost at once, my delicate skin unable to stand the temperature. Laughter bounced off the walls.

“You are unused to the warmth?” Roxelana was stretched out on the other end of the bench.

“Warmth is not a strong enough word,” I said, gingerly sitting back down and cringing at the result.

“It’s marvelous when you’re used to it. If you lie down, your weight will be more evenly distributed and you’ll adjust with greater ease.”

The thought of pressing the entire length of my body onto this instrument of torture did not appeal to me in the least, but Roxelana’s suggestion made a certain amount of academic sense, so, with more than a dash of trepidation, I lowered myself.

She was correct; within minutes, the unbearable temperature had become a pleasant friend, and the marble cradled my limbs, lulling me into a trancelike state from which I had no desire to wake.

“I knew you would like it,” she said.

I struggled to raise my head to look at her as I replied, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever known.”

“And you’ve relaxed enough that you’ve forgot you’re naked.”

At once I shot up, covering myself, and then laughed before dropping back onto the bench. “I suppose it makes no difference.”

“Have the others poisoned you against me?”

“Far from it.”

“They don’t like me because of my religion.”

“Are they aware of your beliefs?” I asked.

“No, but they can see I’m not a devout Muslim. It keeps me separate from the rest.”

“Are they all faithful?”

“To a degree. Faithful enough to make me fear should I be caught with my rosary,” she said. “I do hope you have the sense not to believe the things people here tell you.”

“Including the things you tell me?”

“You can believe some of them. Dare I hope you’ve invented a plan to secure my freedom?”

“I don’t know that it’s even possible for me to do such a thing. I’ve discussed your situation with the sultan. He resisted, but I shall do all I can to convince him to release you,” I said. “I am, in theory, opposed to arranged marriages, but it seems the only way to gain your release.”

“I will not marry a man outside my faith,” she said.

“You’ve no idea how I sympathize, and I wish there were another way. Marriage would at least serve to release you from this prison.”

“Into another.” Tears flashed in her liquid black eyes. “I thought I might find an ally in you—a woman who understood the need to fight for a life of her own, someone who was not bound by a prison of unfair and unjust rules. I see I was wrong.”

The reappearance of Melek put an end to the conversation, but while I sat in front of her as she shampooed me, I couldn’t stop the sting of Roxelana’s words. She knew not how close they cut me. I’d risked much to pursue my own interests and wondered if I could embody the goals to which I aspired if I did nothing to free her from her cage. I felt sharp tears in my own eyes as Melek rinsed my hair and then left me, thoroughly clean, to relax on the warm marble until I was ready to dress. As the heat seduced me, wild scenarios for freeing Roxelana marched through my head, reminding me of the dangers of reading too much sensational fiction. I was beginning to approach a perilous place and already contemplating ways to avoid the British government being implicated should she escape. Uneasy, I was more than eager to seek out my clothes but thought I should lie down for another moment, long enough only to not appear rude. The inanity of this—relaxing by rule—made me smile, and the girl next to me rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on a hand.

“It is much easier to talk in here, don’t you think?”

“Is it?”

“No one’s listening,” she said. “Do you know yet about Ceyden and Jemal?”

“I’ve heard stories. What can you tell me?”

“There’s more to it than a throwaway flirtation—” She stopped speaking, and her eyes left mine. I followed her gaze, turning my head to look behind me, where I saw Perestu, standing above us, fully clothed, not a drop of sweat on her face despite the heat.

“Have you enjoyed the hamam, Lady Emily?”

“More than I expected,” I said, feeling once again wholly self-conscious and covering myself with my arms.

“Go dress. When you are ready, you will be brought to me.”

As she left, I turned back to my neighbor, still sprawled on the warm marble. “There’s not much to tell,” she said, coming close to whisper to me. “It’s just that sometimes there are ways to get to the sultan without earning Perestu’s approval.”


When I was dressed—expertly put back together by one of the harem maids—Perestu took me to Ceyden’s room, a chamber with stone walls and almost no decoration that brought to mind a monk’s cell. Her small bed was covered with heaping mounds of clothing—bright silks, embroidered fabrics, everything cut in current Western fashion. An armoire stood in the corner, doors open, nothing hanging inside, another pile of crumpled dresses lying on its floor.

I crossed to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a desk. On top of it were two books—a collection of Persian poetry translated into English and a copy of the Koran. The margins in the volume of poetry were full of scrawled notes, written in Greek. The Koran, though its spine was broken and the pages dog-eared, contained no annotations.

I pulled open each drawer in the desk. All were empty save one that contained a sewing kit wrapped in a beautifully embroidered cloth. “Who has had access to this room since the murder?” I asked.

“Anyone who wants to come in. You can see that her clothes have been pillaged. For all her faults, Ceyden did have a flair for fashion. If, that is, you like Western styles.”

I shuddered at the thought of people digging through the dead girl’s gowns, looking for something to wear. “You prefer another sort of fashion,” I said. I’d never seen Perestu in anything other than traditional dresses and wide Turkish trousers. It set her apart from the other women and complemented her elegant bearing and petite figure.

“Yes, I do.”

I began picking up gowns from the bed, shaking out each one before draping it over the desk. Aside from the occasional ripped hem, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary and moved to the armoire, where, beneath scarves and shawls and more dresses, I found something that could have been out of Perestu’s wardrobe—a stunning Turkish-style gown fashioned from a rich blue-and-silver brocade. More fascinating than the beauty of the dress, however, was the fact that it was far too heavy for its yardage, its skirt bulky where it should have been smooth. The beginnings of excitement stirring in me, I spread out the garment on the floor and ran my hand over the cloth.

“There’s something not right here,” I said, flipping the dress inside out to reveal a cotton lining with neat seams stitched in it to form small, quilted squares of varying sizes. Anticipating me as she watched, Perestu took the sewing kit from the desk and handed me a slim, golden scissors. I cut the stitches and realized that it wasn’t quilted—the squares were separate pieces of material. Once I’d removed two sides, I reached into what turned out to be a pocket and pulled out an emerald.

With a gasp, Perestu abandoned her regal bearing and dropped to her knees next to me. I opened another square and found three gold bracelets encrusted with rubies, and then another to reveal a pair of heavy diamond earrings.

“Are these her personal jewels?” I asked.

“No. She did not have the status to own such things.”

I kept at my work, and in short order we had before us a glittering pile of gemstones and a slim gold dagger. I reached behind the last square and touched a stunning sapphire ring set in a diamond-encrusted bezel. I held it up to Perestu, who took it from my hand.

“This is mine,” she said. “And I believe we’ve found quite enough, Lady Emily. I see Ceyden for who she was. My instincts about her were perfectly accurate, and we don’t need to know anything else. I can no longer doubt that the guard was the one who killed her, most likely in an attempt to stop her from stealing anything else.”

“That may not be the case, Your Highness,” I said. “We should—”

“It’s quite enough. The sultan will thank you for your services.”

Chapter 8

Standing in front of Aya Sofya, the former Byzantine church—now a mosque—I found it difficult to watch for my husband without being blinded by the sun. I adjusted my parasol, murmuring to myself the words of approval my mother would have spoken were she with me, and looked across the wide street, through a park filled with palm trees and green grass, in the direction of the Blue Mosque. Vendors pushed carts up and down the paths, selling cherry juice and sweets, calling with the hope of enticing passersby to sample their wares. It struck me to see the number of women on the street. Veils covered their faces, and the mystery drew me to them, the sparkle of kohl-rimmed dark eyes having a far greater effect than society women’s diamonds and low-cut gowns. Sporadically, I would catch a glimpse of a hennaed hand peeking out from wide, long sleeves, and the sound of their frequent laughter seemed at odds with their restrictive clothing.