"The Chinese collection was the missing piece," he says.

"Of what?"

"Asma Sultan had that pendant made. She is our correspondent inside the palace."

"Your correspondent?" Sybil is confused.

"It's a long story, cousin. I'll tell you when we're warm and cozy in front of a fire."

Kamil turns to Bernie. "I wonder if her daughter is involved."

"Is this a plot?" Sybil asks excitedly. "There really was a plot?" She claps her hands with pleasure. "Oh, wait until Maitlin hears about this."

"Sybil Hanoum," Bernie says with mock seriousness, "may I remind you that you were almost killed?"

"Yes, isn't it marvelous?" They all burst out laughing. Kamil turns away to hide the tears of relief, mixed with sorrow, blurring his sight.

"Perihan and her mother are very close," Sybil explains. "I can't imagine one would do something without the other knowing." She thinks a moment. "Asma Sultan said an odd thing this afternoon. We were talking about Perihan and Leyla being friends, and she said Perihan was keeping an eye on her. Do you think she was spying on Leyla?"

"They watch Leyla," Kamil muses aloud. "They try to incriminate her sister Shukriye in Sybil Hanoum's disappearance." He realizes with a shock that he almost said death. "Why?"

"Leyla reports to the secret police?" Bernie ventures.

"That would make her very dangerous to Asma Sultan."

They ride for a while in silence. Bernie keeps his arm around Sybil's shoulder. A filigree of moonlight illuminates the road's dark tunnel through the trees. The horses' backs shudder with light. Kamil counts his accomplishments like a child warding off the darkness. Sybil is safe. He allows himself a glance over his shoulder. Her hair has tumbled out of its pins. Her eyes meet his and he looks quickly away, but not before she has seen his smile. Hamza, a traitor, responsible for seducing and possibly killing young women, has been stopped. If instead the secret police killed Hannah and Mary, these, like Asma Sultan, are beyond his reach and he must defer to Allah for their judgment.

But Baba, Baba, whose dream he had stolen.

Perhaps it is true that only Allah is perfect and human endeavors intrinsically flawed. In an otherwise orderly and rational universe, Allah has woven chaos into the corner of every man's life as a reminder.

After a while, the carriage emerges on a hillside overlooking vineyards and the vast sparkling waters of the strait. The upper side of the road is tangled with raspberry bushes. Fireflies throb in the vineyards below, exhaling light. Far in the distance, night fishermen row across the silver water.

54.

Death Is Too Easy.

The river Seine is frozen. I cannot see it from my window, but I have walked on its back. The snow reminds me of Istanbul, the long cypress shadows, the brilliant glint of icicles hanging from all the eaves, a gerdanlouk for our house at Chamyeri. White chunks like common sea gla.s.s melting. I hadn't expected Hamza to die, not in that way, not in any. It is true what philosophers say, that words have the heft of a sword and must be wielded as carefully. In my anger, I hurled words into the world, spoke Hamza's name, and impaled him on it. How was I to know that my words would put him together in that pond with Hannah, he embracing from above, she from below? Never can I believe that he read fairy tales to me in the afternoon and killed her in the evening. But it doesn't matter now. I have killed him. And Mary has given me life. Mary. My friend, my love, yellow-haired queen of the dolphins. It is because of her that I am now here in the world.

Vengeance. Another word. Perhaps you say I have wielded enough words and should now be silent, that I can't be trusted with words. But come now, haven't I pleased you with my array of sentences, my whispers-let's be clear-my honesty? I am not a killer.

What about Violet? you ask. The pond in the forest behind Chamyeri is clear-eyed. Violet owned the water, or so she thought. But I had learned that one could drown in knee-deep water, especially with the senses obscured and limbs made dumb by a special tea. I served her the same tea she had given Mary. When Violet slipped on the rocks in the pond, I held her head, stroking her black hair streaming in the water. At the last moment, I took Violet's hand and turned her to face the sky. I saved her so the regret would be hers, not mine. So that she remembers. Death is too easy-I have learned how dreadfully easy.

I had found the second teapot when I went back to the sea hamam the following day. I wanted to make sure I wasn't dreaming, to rest my hand in her grave. There was no tea in that pot, but long, thick strands. Dried tube flowers, like the ones Violet had prepared as an infusion for Mama to breathe into her lungs to ease her cough. I hurled the pot, like a snake, into the water, but the poison had long done its work. When I confronted her, Violet admitted she had kept Mary below the water until she exhausted herself. It was to save me, Violet insisted. I have been saved from myself so thoroughly that I am left with a stranger, I replied before leading her to the pond. There our bond was forged, and now it is cut.

Mary, though-she is not dead, but one of those princesses of my youth pinned to the sand, waiting. My words will make her live again. Her feet like fresh milk cupped by my hands.

A fire is burning low in the grate, but the room is warm with the colors of home. My dayi has sent me carpets and books and even a samovar so that I may feel his proximity. I spend my days in study and learn to wield many kinds of words, gauging their power. The secret is in how you hold the sword, in the flick of the wrist.

Acknowledgments.

I am deeply grateful to my agent, Al Zuckerman, and to Amy Cherry, my editor, for their faith in this book and for their expert guidance. I also wish to thank Stephen Kimmel, Edite Kroll, Elizabeth Warnock Fernea, Roger Owen, Donald Quataert, Kevin Reinhart, and Corky White for reading and commenting on the ma.n.u.script; Feride iekolu for her gift of a pomegranate; and Carl Leiden for getting the ball rolling. Thanks to Linda Barlow, friend and mentor. A special debt of grat.i.tude is owed to Michael Freeman, tireless editor, muse, and hand holder, who believed it would happen.

end.