Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“I’ve grown tired of your games,” he said. He raised the gun to the ceiling and fired. Roxelana screamed as the shot ricocheted, but it hit nothing of consequence. Acting out of pure instinct, I knew this was the moment and flung my soaking petticoat onto the flame of the torch. The water doused it at once, and we all stood in absolute darkness.

“Roxelana, run!” I said, silently thanking whoever had decided petticoats should have enough yardage in them to give them a serious heft when wet. “Follow the railing and get to the door.”

I’d figure out some way to unlock the door when I reached it. I heard scrambling feet—it sounded as if she tripped but managed to right herself and set off. Mr. Sutcliffe, however, was still. Not wanting to go near him, I tried as best I could to retrace the way I’d come, no easy feat in an underground room devoid of all light.

“What have you done?” His breathing was hard, irregular, too fast, his voice quivering as he spoke. “Light your candle again. At once.”

I kept moving, hoping I was headed for the door, hoping that the police in the bazaar had taken my direction seriously and that soon we’d have reinforcements. And then, despite myself and despite the hideous circumstances, I almost laughed, realizing that if Colin were there, he’d be bent on rescuing me, and this made me all the more determined to escape on my own.

Roxelana was moving, her steps steady but not fast, but Sutcliffe had still not summoned whatever it would take to make himself move. A whimper escaped from his lips, his fear and panic palpable. I prayed he would not be able to conquer it.

“You must light the candle. Please!” He was shouting now, desperate. “I can’t stand it—you must help me.”

And then I heard a terrible sound. A match. I turned to see the quick flash of brightness. He tried to light the torch, but it was too wet, and he struck a second match and started walking.

“I will kill you,” he said. “You should not have done this to me.”

I had somehow wound my way back to the boardwalk, my hand, which I’d held out in front of me, rubbed against a post of the rail, a splinter sliced into my palm. Undaunted, I continued on, using the rail as a guide. The second match burned out, and he lit a third.

“I can’t open it!” Roxelana had reached the door and was banging on it, her voice full of tears. “Help me, Emily!”

We were so close now. If I could get to the door, I could figure out some way to open the latch. I moved more quickly, then slowed my pace, not wanting to give him audible clues as to where I was. I wished Roxelana would stop pounding on the door but could do nothing about it. I was nearly to her.

The dim match light died, and I braced for him to strike another, but he didn’t. “Light your candle! You do not understand what you are doing to me. Light it!”

He was crying now—heaving sobs—and I let myself move more quickly. No sooner had I started than he began shooting. He was aiming at the ceiling again, trying to frighten us. Great chunks of plaster or rock or something crashed into the water, setting Roxelana screaming again. I pulled myself out of the water, held both sides of the railing in my hands, and ran as fast as I could.

“Emily! Please! Help me!”

I did not mean to reply, but the words came out almost before I realized it. “I’m coming!”

My voice bounced through the chamber, but the echo didn’t confuse him enough. The direction of his bullets was more pointed now, and I dropped to my knees, determined to crawl the rest of the way, a dull pain in my side as I pulled myself along on my elbows. It was only when my corset, already damp, started to grow warm that I realized he’d hit me. The wound itself did not hurt much, but I felt woozy at once, scared and sick. Rescue no longer seemed a dreadful proposition.

I had no choice but to keep moving, and now it seemed that he had regained some nerve. I could hear his heavy footsteps, far behind me on the turn-filled walkway. He was screaming, knocking against the rails, even fell into the water once with a great splash. This spurred me on as a flash of heat coursed through me, and I began to wonder how badly I was hurt. I put my hand to my abdomen, feeling blood, tears streaming from my eyes as I realized that whatever my condition, as Bezime called it, had been, it certainly wouldn’t be any longer. And just then, I knew with certainty that I did welcome it, that I could manage to conquer my fears. But the chance was gone. All I wanted was to stop, to lie down, to sleep, to ignore Roxelana’s voice, which sounded farther and farther away.

I kept crawling.

When I reached the door, I could hardly stand, not only because I was weak, but because I was shaking so violently. Roxelana pulled me to my feet, and together we began wiggling the latch of the door. I could tell by touch that the mechanism was the same as that on the barn door of my father’s estate in Kent. It was a type that, in theory, could be opened from the inside but in fact stuck easily and was almost impossible to manage. As a girl, I’d become an expert at undoing it from both inside and out—spending more time than my mother liked in the barn with my horses. The memory overwhelmed me, dizziness with it, and I nearly lost my entire train of thought until Roxelana shook me. I remembered where I was and tried again and again but was unable to generate the right force at the right angle on the lock.

And then Mr. Sutcliffe’s steps grew heavier, his cries more savage. He could not have been more than thirty feet from us. Summoning every bit of strength I had, I jammed the latch as hard as I could and felt the door give. Roxelana and I tumbled out of it, slamming it hard behind us, cramming the latch hard into the locked position but knowing that if we could force it, he would be able to as well.

“Find something heavy,” I said, doubled over in pain, trying to drag myself up the slippery steps. “Block the door with it.”

“I don’t see anything. I don’t know what to do. I can’t—” Roxelana’s face was ashen, her eyes sunken.

“One of the stones from the edge around the stairs,” I said.

“I don’t want to hit you.”

“You won’t,” I said. “I’ll keep moving.”

“Let me help you first,” she said.

“No, it will take too long. Push it over.”

She stood behind one of the rectangular blocks stacked in haphazard fashion on either side of the top of the stairwell, serving as a sort of barrier to keep people from dropping down the steps from the side. She strained against it, and it moved, only slightly.

I could hear Mr. Sutcliffe fiddling with the latch, clawing at the door. “Let me out! Please! Please!” His voice broke into sobs.

“He’s here. You must hurry.”

She pushed again, harder, I think. I could no longer see her. My vision had become hazy. But I heard her groaning and then heard the scraping sound of rock, followed by a crash, followed by sobs.

“Is it in front of the door?” I asked, the words almost impossible to form.

It sounded as if her answer were yes, but the only thing I heard with clarity was fingernails digging into wood.

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPH

May 2, 1892

Handed in at: Canterbury at 1:37 PM

Received here at: 12:13 PM

TO: Mr. C. Hargreaves

c/o British Embassy Constantinople

Mrs. Brandon having great difficulties. Send prayers and prepare my daughter in case things turn worse. Will update at regular intervals.

Bromley

Forgetting flowers is the easiest thing in the world. They’re there, in the background, and you almost don’t notice at all until you start paying attention, cataloging the colors, gauging the sweetness of their fragrances. I loved irises, their grape scent filling the garden in spring, and roses, of course, climbing over walls and trellises. It had been such a pleasant night’s sleep, full of blooming fields and sparkling sunshine. Warmth radiating from me, I reached for Colin, wanting to pull him to me.

My arm, however, felt only cool sheets, rumpled blankets. I started to turn on my side, to see if he’d already awakened, but was stopped by a shooting pain that sent a cry from my lips, which I realized, as I woke further, were cracked and dry.

“Colin?” My eyes were so heavy that it was hard to open them, but as soon as I spoke, I heard sounds all around me. Footsteps, sharp breaths, rustling skirts.

“My dear girl.” His voice was like liquid heaven, and I felt his weight next to me now. I turned my head and forced open my eyes.

“You look dreadful,” I said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “When’s the last time you shaved? I won’t have you with a beard. I simply won’t.”

He laughed—relief and nerves—and kissed me on the forehead. “My dear girl.” It was all he could say, apparently, and he kept repeating it.

We weren’t alone. Margaret was on my other side. “Good heavens,” I said. “Is it a party? What have I missed?”

And then I started to remember. I felt the heavy bandage on my abdomen under my nightgown and started to cry. “Did they catch him?”

“They did.” Colin wiped my tears with his hands. “You set everything up without a flaw. The police arrived within ten minutes of your losing consciousness. Roxelana was tending to your wound.”

“How did Sutcliffe get her?” I asked.

“I never even saw her,” Margaret said. “He must have been waiting outside the window. He followed us because he was suspicious that you were on to him, and as soon as he saw us stationed near the mosque and then saw the caravan with the concubines, he knew what we were planning. You were right that he’d been tailing Benjamin. He’d arranged for the shootings at the dig to make Sir Richard worry—he wanted to drive him crazy. And from following Benjamin, he knew all about Roxelana.”