I had not expected to see women moving about the city with such freedom but had found almost as soon as we’d arrived that this was just another Western misconception. And as I watched them walk, crossing the street to greet friends or investigate the goods for sale piled on a cart, I contemplated the delicious possibility of going about without anyone recognizing who you were.

“Mrs. Hargreaves?” Mr. Sutcliffe bowed in front of me. “How delightful to see you.”

“And you as well,” I said, smiling. “You look full of purpose today.” His eyes were focused and clear, his head high.

“That I am, although it’s a difficult one.” He shifted a bundle of packages in his arms. “I’m bringing clothes to a family in dire need. Their son, only eight years old, died from a fever last night. They’re terrified it’s contagious and are burning everything they own. I can give them new things, but such a deed pales when compared with their loss.”

“How terrible. Is there anything I can do?”

“I should never turn down a donation, but would take nothing else. You do not need to put yourself in circumstances that might cause you harm. I can’t have you falling ill—your husband would never forgive me. I must beg your leave, but hope to see you soon.”

“Of course,” I said. “And you may depend upon Mr. Hargreaves sending you a check.”

“I am indebted to you both.” With a nod, he stepped away. A gust of wind tugged at my parasol, spring reminding summer it was not yet ready to relinquish its crown, and I held the handle more tightly, squinting in the face of the bright sun.

“That’s quite a scowl,” Colin said, swooping in to kiss me. “Something wrong?”

“No, just the sun.” I looped my arm through his and recounted my conversation with Mr. Sutcliffe.

“He’s a dedicated man. Many in his position would be consumed with anger instead of compassion.”

“I admire his ability to turn tragedy into an opportunity to lessen the pain of others,” I said, adjusting my scarf to cover my head suitably for a mosque as we approached Aya Sofya. We walked a few paces before pausing to remove our shoes—a requirement before entering a Muslim holy building.

“Tell me about your morning,” Colin said.

“I went to the hamam and then searched Ceyden’s room. You won’t believe what—”

“You went to the hamam? The baths? In the harem?”

“Yes, it was lovely.” I adored the look in his eyes but was not going to be distracted. I tugged on his arm, pulling him inside, across a wide corridor, and into the domed center. The floors, built from marble in the Byzantine days, were now covered with thick carpets that muffled the sound of murmured prayers whispered by the faithful, their heads pressed to the ground. The old Christian mosaics had been hidden by painted plaster, but the space was beautiful, caught between two religions, a testament to the battles fought between them. Little light made its way through the windows, and the candles of the low-hanging chandeliers served only to cast flickering shadows, eerie in their elegance. “Ceyden was hiding a collection of—”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The baths?”

I could not help but grin. “This is precisely why I didn’t tell you what I was doing at Yıldız before I left this morning. We’ll discuss everything later. At the moment, we can’t be distracted.”

“Yes, we can. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’m already hopelessly distracted.”

Now it was his turn to lead me, up a steep cobbled path that stood in lieu of a stairway, its stones so uneven and slick that I clung to him to keep from slipping. The dark passage went to an upper gallery, turn after turn at hard right angles leading to the top, but Colin stopped before we reached it, pushed me against the wall, and gave me a kiss that tempted me beyond all reason. As soon as I began to pull away, he lifted his hand to the back of my neck and began tracing circles with a single finger, sending the most delicious darts down my spine.

“You’re terrible,” I said. “You can’t kiss me here.”

“This is supposed to be our honeymoon,” he said, kissing me again. “I’ll kiss you wherever I desire. Now tell me about the baths.”

“Not a chance.” With no inconsiderable effort, I stepped aside and smoothed my skirts. “I don’t think I could have married you if you weren’t so wholly distracting. But I shall resist you right now.”

“Dreadful girl.”

“It will be all the better later.” Our eyes locked on each other. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

“And you’ll tell me about the baths?”

“Perhaps.” I bit my now swollen lips. “If you’re able to persuade me.”

“I can’t wait to win our bet.”

“I can’t wait for you to lose,” I said. We sat, continuing to stare at each other for at least two minutes longer than any decent person would tolerate. He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head, and continued up the passage.

“Tell me about Ceyden,” he said. I described for him what I’d learned about Ceyden, Jemal, and Roxelana and what I’d found, pulling out the notebook in which I’d cataloged each of the pieces of jewelry.

“Perestu all but chucked me out of the harem after she identified her ring.”

“What will you do next?”

We stood near the stone rail that ran the circumference of the gallery all the way around the building. I looked across the gilded screens shielding the ladies’ area. The painted designs beneath them mimicked the pattern on the window arches and ceiling, bursts of geometric flowers in blue against a burnt gold background. The beauty was breathtaking, but it troubled me to think that the women were all confined to the space, isolated from everything going on around them. Another beautiful cage. As I thought about it, however, I considered my own society. We women might be allowed to sit wherever we wanted in church, but we had no more clout than our Ottoman counterparts. Our segregation was merely less visible.

“There are any number of ways Ceyden could have got those objects. What if she was blackmailing their owners?”

“That would explain Perestu’s actions. Have you any proof?”

I grinned. “Not a shred, my dear boy. If blackmail is the explanation, she must have known something horrifying enough to induce her cohorts to part with their treasures.”

“I don’t think I like the theory, Emily,” he said, turning away from the rail and leaning his back against it. “What purpose would getting jewelry serve? She had access to whatever she wanted and didn’t need money.”

“Unless she was planning to escape.”

“Escape? When she was doing everything she could to gain the sultan’s favor?”

“I admit freely there are holes in the hypothesis. However...” I stepped towards him and rested my hand on the cool marble post that held a tall candelabra above the rail. “What if she knew something about the sultan himself? Suppose she was blackmailing him, and suppose he was tired of it and had someone kill her?”

“He’s the sultan—she’s essentially his slave,” he said. “She’d have nothing on him worthy of blackmail.”

“Had I even an inkling of the deficits in your imagination, I would never have married you. I feel entirely misled.”

“My deepest apologies. How awful for you.”

“I shan’t ever recover,” I said.

“I would hope not.” His eyes danced. “I expect you to be despondent for at least six months.”

“If you weren’t such a beast, you’d have the decency to make a vain attempt at consolation,” I said.

He lifted my chin and kissed me, one hand around my waist, the other on my face.

“We are in a church!” I said.

“A mosque. Was my effort not enough? Are you not consoled?”

I studied his face and suppressed a smile. “It was admirable, I suppose.”

“Admirable?”

I shrugged. “I was trying to be generous. Given our surroundings, I can only assume you are operating with great restraint.”

“You’re kindness itself.” He stepped back, warmth radiating from his smile. “So, blackmailing the sultan?”

“I convinced Perestu to let me take the book of poetry from Ceyden’s desk and am hoping the marginalia turns out to be more than an analysis of the poems.”

“Blackmail records? Unlikely that she’d leave something so sensitive out in the open.”

“They may have been coded somehow. At any rate, they appeared to be written in Greek.” I watched a group of men, bent over in prayer, kneel on the floor below us.

He smiled at me. “Anything else to report?”

“At the moment, I find myself suddenly more interested in telling you about the hamam.”

“Perhaps you made me wait too long,” he said. “I might have other plans.”

“Unlikely in the extreme,” I said, meeting his eyes and pulling him towards me. “And at any rate, I’m confident I can convince you there’s nowhere you’d rather be.”

“I can be awfully stubborn.”

“Not as stubborn as I am,” I said.

He tipped his head back and laughter spilled out of him. “Truer words I have never heard.”

I am pleased to report that when we did at last return home, he did not prove stubborn in the least.


The next morning, I headed across the Bosphorus to Stamboul—the old section of the city, a peninsula jutting into the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus—hoping to see Bezime at Topkapı. Meg had sliced a piece of gingerroot for me, expressing veiled concern at having seen me return home ill day after day and telling me that chewing it would prevent seasickness. Lovely though the gesture was, it had little effect on the overwhelming nausea that hit the moment I stepped into the boat and felt the waves churning beneath me. By the time the crossing was over, I was sweating and cold at the same time, my stomach lurching every time I drew breath.