Leyla holds her sister's hand and strokes her cheek, murmuring, "Shukriye, my dearest, my rose. You're home at last. We've missed you very much."

Shukriye sighs deeply, as if reaching for all the air in the room. When she finishes, she says to no one in particular, "What is to be done? It is in Allah's hands."

She notices Sybil for the first time.

"Who is that?" she asks.

Leyla introduces Sybil again, emphasizing the fact that her father is the British amba.s.sador.

Sybil begins repeating the ritual formula of greeting. Leyla interrupts, waving her hand exhaustedly and says, "Sybil Hanoum, you are welcome. We consider you a member of our house. Please sit."

Leyla calls to the servant waiting by the door and tells her to bring coffee and then to leave and make sure they are not disturbed.

When the girl has served the coffee and gone, Leyla says, "When you're ready, my rose, tell us everything."

"I have a large house," Shukriye begins slowly, "with enough servants that I cannot say I'm not comfortable. And people say that my husband is a good man." She pauses and loses her eyes in the play of light beyond the window. "Perhaps he is," she whispers, "but he's also a weak man. I feel as if I'm married not to him, but to his mother." Her face winds into a grimace and she begins to cry again, an ugly outraged crying.

"She is responsible for the death of my children," she chokes out.

The other women sit tense and rapt. Sybil is startled to see a smile of satisfaction flash across Perihan's face, but then decides she must have been mistaken.

Finally, Shukriye calms down and continues in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "My daughters fell ill after eating her food. I think she poisoned them out of spite because I hadn't borne a son. She didn't allow me to take the children to the doctor in town. Instead, she called her faith healer. All he did," she says disgustedly, "was write some Quranic verses on a piece of paper and throw it in water, then had the girls drink the water. Can you imagine?"

Perihan says softly, "Imbibing the word of Allah is a blessed remedy, Shukriye dear. Perhaps they were not meant to live. It is Allah's will."

Shukriye closes her eyes. "Surely treating illness with medicine also finds favor in Allah's eyes."

Asma Sultan asks, "Are you not worried about your son during your absence?"

"Of course I am, but he has a guardian now."

"Your husband?"

"No, he's still his mother's slave. After my children died, my husband took a k.u.ma. His mother suggested it, of course. Then she handed him the stick for our backs," she adds angrily.

A second wife, thinks Sybil, appalled.

Seeing the women's stricken faces, Shukriye tells them, "It's not so bad. She became like my daughter. I tried to protect her, but every month laid a year on her face. She became pregnant and miscarried in midwinter, with no midwife able to reach her through the snow in time. She can have no more children, the poor girl."

Shukriye's hand traces the flowers on a cushion.

"Since her misfortune, her spirit has hardened. Even our husband fears her temper. And she has the support of three brothers who live nearby. My son is safe in her hands."

The room falls silent.

Finally, Sybil ventures, "You must miss your family terribly. I haven't seen my sister in England in more than seven years, and I've never met my nephews at all. Sometimes it's hard to bear. Tell me, why did you marry so far away?" Fl.u.s.tered, she adds, "I mean, if it's not impertinent of me to ask."

"I don't know, chere hanoum. I was engaged to marry my cousin, Prince Ziya." She struggles to control her voice. "He was killed and then my life was taken from me. Whoever killed him, killed me too. I refuse to believe that my life in Erzurum was kismet. Someone besides Allah had a hand in it." She adjusts her veil so that it covers the lower part of her face, then looks up at the women and adds softly, "Those who take fate from the hands of Allah are guilty of pride and will surely be punished."

"Allah knows our fates," Perihan counters. "They are written on our foreheads at birth. No earthly being can alter them." Her voice has a sharp edge that can easily be confused with sorrow. She pulls her veil across the bottom of her face, but Sybil sees the deep crease between her eyes.

"Perhaps you're right. But what was the point of his death? I don't believe for a moment that he was killed by thieves in a house of ill repute, as they told me. I'm sure the palace had him killed. They think all the Turks in Paris are plotting against the sultan. But they're wrong. Ziya was there to oversee the signing of a trade agreement, nothing more."

Leyla tries to hush her sister. "My dear sister, please don't excite yourself. Allah is the only witness." Trying to change the subject, she turns to Sybil.

"You remind me of a governess we had in the palace long ago, may Allah rest her soul. You have the same pale eyes."

"Hannah Simmons?" Sybil feels her skin p.r.i.c.kling with excitement.

"Yes, that was her name. Did you know her?" Leyla leans closer to Sybil. "You seem too young."

"My mother did. Please tell me about Hannah."

"A calm girl, sweet as honey lok.u.m." Leyla looks around the room. "What else is there to tell? Asma Sultan, you must remember her."

Asma Sultan thinks a moment, then answers, "No, regrettably I do not. Though, of course, we all know what happened to her."

Perihan looks at her mother in surprise and seems about to speak, then thinks better of it.

Leyla also appears surprised. "But she was a governess in your house."

"We have many servants," Asma Sultan snaps irritably.

Perihan adds in a conciliatory tone, "She wasn't very memorable. I'm sure her death is the only reason we can remember her at all."

"I thought her quite pleasant," Shukriye chimes in. "I often saw her at the women's gatherings and at the hamam. She had charge of the young girls. I once tried to give her some satin cloth, but she seemed content to dress like a colorless sparrow. Poor woman. She seemed uninterested in even the simplest embroidery or jewelry."

"Just that silver necklace she always wore," Leyla adds. "Do you remember it, Shukriye? The only time she ever took it off was to sleep and at the baths. I was surprised that she took it off even then, since she insisted on wearing a chemise. Perhaps she had a disability?" She looks at Sybil inquiringly. "I never understood why she hid her body in the bath. It's ridiculous. We're all women. What is there to hide?"

Sybil can think of no response that wouldn't offend her hosts. On the lowest physical surface, what Leyla says makes logical sense, but it takes no account of higher, more civilized notions of modesty. She smiles nervously.

"Why didn't she take the necklace off? Was it something special?" asks Shukriye.

"I don't think so. Just a round silver bauble," Leyla says dismissively.

Sybil speaks up. She wants to defend Hannah from these women's disparaging judgment. "I think it was probably quite a valuable piece. At least, it seems to have been made at the palace."

"Why do you think that? I don't remember anything particular about it," asks Leyla curiously. "Of course, it was all such a long time ago."

"It has a tughra inside," Sybil says brightly, relieved at not having to defend British modesty and proud that she has something to contribute to the conversation.

Leyla draws her breath in sharply. "What? Where would a foreign girl get such a thing? You must be mistaken."

"No, really. I saw it myself."

Leyla looks at Asma Sultan. "It must have been a gift from someone in the harem."

"I'm not in the habit of giving valuable gifts to servants," Asma Sultan answers with mild reproach.

"Sybil Hanoum," Perihan asks, "did you say you saw it? I thought the police would have taken it."

The women's heads all turn to Sybil.

"The young Englishwoman-Mary Dixon-who was killed last month had it around her neck. You've heard of her death, surely." Turning to Perihan, she adds, "She was your governess, I believe."

"Mary Hanoum," Perihan mutters. "An odd woman, but I wished her no ill. May Allah have mercy on her soul." To Sybil, "I never saw her wear such a necklace."

"How do you know it's the same one Hannah had?" Leyla asks.

Sybil explains about the box. "It's also special because it has Chinese writing in it."

"Chinese?" the women exclaim.

"Then it must be something from outside the country," Perihan suggests. "Maybe the sultan's seal was added later."

Leyla agrees. "Our food in the palace is served on porcelain brought from China."

"And aren't those enormous vases in the reception rooms from China?" Shukriye adds. "I remember almost knocking one over as a child."

"Didn't your mother have a collection of Chinese art?" Leyla asks Asma Sultan.

Asma Sultan doesn't answer the question. Instead, she asks Sybil, "How do you know it's Chinese?"

"My cousin Bernie is visiting here. He's a scholar of Asia. That is, he's writing a book on relations between your empire and the East. Anyway, he was able to read it. It's part of a poem."

"A poem," Asma Sultan repeats knowingly. "Of course. It was probably a gift to Hannah from her lover. But how did this woman Mary come to have it?"

"Hannah had a lover?" Sybil tries to hide her excitement.

"Someone she met on her day off. She was allowed to leave the palace once a week, but Arif Agha kept an eye on her."

"Arif Agha?"

"One of the eunuchs. Every week, Hannah got into a carriage with the same driver and didn't come back until early the next morning. Arif Agha asked her where she went, but all he could get out of her was, 'To visit a friend.' He tried to have her followed, but that incompetent fellow couldn't manage it. And then it was too late."

"Did Arif Agha describe the driver?" Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan thinks about this. "He said the driver was scruffily dressed, not in livery as one might expect if she were visiting a home in good society. But such families would have sent an escort. Anyway, Arif Agha told all this to the police." Then she mutters to herself, "That fox-tongued fool always talked too much."

"Is Arif Agha here?" Sybil thinks Kamil might wish to speak with him.

"He retired. His incompetence lost him our trust."

"And his venality," adds Perihan.

"It was stupid of the girl to get into a carriage unaccompanied," Asma Sultan observes. "Anything could happen."

"And clearly did." Perihan completes her mother's sentence in a satisfied voice.

"Was the driver a Turk?" Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan sighs deeply, unable to hide her annoyance at the continued questioning. "I don't think so. According to Arif Agha, the man had Arab hair the color of sand. Perhaps a Kurd. Their hair is curly like that, but they are usually darker. One of the minorities? But which one?" She throws up her hands in mock despair. "How is one to tell?" After a moment, she adds darkly, "If you toy with a snake, it will bite you."

Perihan asks Sybil, a bit sharply, "Why do you want to know this?"

Leyla intercedes. "Of course, she was one of your people," she tells Sybil kindly. "It's natural that you should want to know as much as possible about her."

"Her killer was never found," Sybil adds.

"Under a rock, no doubt, among others of his kind." Asma Sultan shrugs.

"Do you think it's of any importance now?" Shukriye asks.

"I don't know. I'm helping Kamil Pasha, the magistrate investigating Mary Dixon's murder. He seems to think there's some connection between the two deaths." She turns to Asma Sultan. "Did you say your mother had a collection of Chinese art? My cousin would be most interested to take a look at it, I mean, if that's permitted. And I'll be sure to tell Kamil Pasha about it." She says his t.i.tle proudly, as if it already belongs to her, relishing the heft of it on her tongue. "He's coming to dine with us the day after tomorrow."

"My mother has pa.s.sed away," Asma Sultan replies stiffly.

Sybil is mortified. "I'm so sorry, Your Highness. I didn't know. Health to your head."

"It was a long time ago." Asma Sultan rises to her feet. "Now it is time for us to leave."

Shamed by her gaffe, Sybil watches as Asma Sultan, ignoring Leyla's protestations, walks to the door and raps on it. It is opened immediately by her eunuch. She waits while Perihan kisses her hostess on both cheeks in farewell. Sybil feels Asma Sultan's eyes on her, but when she turns, Asma Sultan is gone.

32.

With Wine-Red Necks It was early in the day. The lane leading to Chamyeri Village was still cool beneath the pines and I shivered in my light feradje. The air was lush with the smell of pine. I tasted salt on my tongue.

"It's been nearly a year. Why should I be banished any longer? There's no one to talk to here and nothing to do," I added petulantly.

I did not mention Mary. Violet did not like her, as she had not liked Hamza, my only two friends. I had scolded her for withholding Mary's messages. If Violet had not been a servant, I would have suspected her of jealousy. It was true that I no longer enjoyed her company as much as in the past when I had no friends of my own. It was true that I had outgrown her touch. The last time she came in the night wanting to share my quilt, I told her we were no longer children who could tumble about unconcerned like the kangal dog's new puppies. She sat on the edge of the quilt, sullen, her mouth downturned. I noticed the deepening lines beside her mouth and between her eyes. I reached, out of habit and concern, to smooth them away. She caught my hand and nestled her cheek in my palm. When I tried to withdraw it, she caught the edge of my hand between her teeth and shook it, for all the world like a kangal, before releasing me and slipping out of the room. I stared at the indentations left by her teeth in my flesh, wanting to laugh, but also curiously afraid, as if a violent current had disarranged the air.

She was dear to me nonetheless, as she ought to have known. We were always together, except when Mary fetched me for our excursions. During the coldest months, snow-blocked roads had ended our meetings. The boat that delivered our coal also brought letters from Mary early that winter. But I had not seen or heard from her in months, even though the roads were now open. She had written that she had some business to see to and would come to me as soon as she could. But I no longer wished to circle the shallows waiting, and decided to throw myself back into the current of life.

"Ismail Dayi is hardly ever here and Mama refuses to listen to anything. It's as if I'm a child again." I thought of poor Mama lying on her divan, coughing, wrapped in her fur cloak despite the warm balm of spring, and felt my complaint stick in my stomach. "I hope Mama gets well soon," I whispered by way of apology. What is written will come to be, but what is spoken also provokes fate.

Violet walked silently by my side. I had become accustomed to her new silences. I remembered her crying in her room when she first arrived at Chamyeri. She must be lonely, I decided. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. Her mouth was tight and a frown had settled onto her forehead. Perhaps it was time I asked Ismail Dayi or Papa to find her a husband.

We pa.s.sed orchards behind crumbling brick walls. Fig leaves draped the walls like dark green hands moving in the slight breeze, guarding the small, prim sacs of fruit. Pairs of doves with wine-red necks called softly to one another. We entered the shade of a narrow lane beneath overhanging second stories.

Violet looked about nervously.