With a smile so weak as to be all but nonexistent, I dipped the bowl into the sink, sending water spilling over the sides. There were no drains. The water ran into a trough in the floor and disappeared beneath a wall, the sound of its travels dancing through echoes of the bouncing hum of the faucets. The warm stone felt good against my back, but there was no part of me finding even slim comfort in the situation. Other than the sound of water, the room appeared silent until I began to listen with focused attention. All around me, the women were whispering to one another, leaning forward to circumvent the basins, heads bent together as they spoke, coming apart when they lifted their bowls above them.
I looked at my arms, astonished to find that even my limbs had blushed crimson, and dropped my head back against the wall, ashamed of myself. Much though I wanted to throw myself into the local culture and behave nothing like the typical Englishwoman, I was failing miserably at the
Meg would be beyond horrified when she saw me.
A petite blonde sat at the basin next to mine and began dousing herself. “I understand we are to be kind to you,” she said. “An unusual directive.”
“Is it?” I planted my elbows on my knees and rested my chin on them, trying to hide my body.
“You should relax.” She tipped her head back and poured more water. I looked away, focusing on the floor. The marble, a superior grade, better than any I’d seen in England, shimmered in the soft light but was not enough to keep my attention. I tried the ceiling instead, counting the small circular windows cut into it and then analyzing the color of the sky, not quite cerulean. My neighbor’s laughter floated into my false reverie. “Is it so taxing?”
“Taxing?” I asked, forcing myself to meet her clear eyes.
“I have heard stories of the West, of the European courts. Didn’t believe them, but perhaps I should have. Is everyone in England so tense?”
This made me smile. “Yes, actually.”
“Tedious.” She pushed her hands against the bench, straightening her arms and arching her back.
“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious... yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.
“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”
“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”
“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“You don’t feel... restricted?”
“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”
“But you can’t leave?”
“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”
“You know her?”
“Her room is near mine.”
“Are you friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”
“In the harem?”
“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”
“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.
“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”
“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.
“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”
“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”
“He brings us her medicines.”
“I understand he knew Ceyden well.”
“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She was impossible to escape.”
“What can you tell me of their relationship?”
“It wasn’t so unusual. As I said, we’ve no one to flirt with but the guards. Most of us have a favorite.”
“Was she as close to him as Roxelana is?”
“Not at all. But Ceyden was less discreet and drew too much attention to them.”
“Did he do anything to help her get the sultan’s notice?” I asked.
“He let her believe he did, but I never saw anything that suggested he’d succeeded. Jemal’s a pleasant enough distraction,” she said. “But I wouldn’t consider him reliable.”
Melek had returned and motioned for me to follow her, putting a stop to our conversation with a sharp shake of her head. I stood, unsteady on the ill-fitting wooden clogs, and shuffled behind her to a large, octagonal marble platform in the middle of the room. Following the lead of the women who were already there, I lay down, resting my head on a small pillow, my heart racing.
Melek pulled a mohair mitt onto her hand and began scrubbing my skin with an earnest vigor, so hard that it almost hurt, leaving no inch unpolished, fingertips to toes, until I was tingling. I flipped onto my stomach and she continued with my back, pausing to show me the horrific amount of residue that had collected on the mitt. When she’d finished, she had me stand and soaked me with water before helping me to lie back down. Next came a gentle massage, another rinse, and another scrub. This time, instead of the mitt, she used a long, tail-like brush, which she rubbed with soap. As she moved it over my body, it left behind inches of fine lather. More rinsing followed, and now when I stood up, my self-consciousness had started to fade, but I kept my eyes closed, wanting neither to see the other women nor to notice them watching me.
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?”
