“Only think what we might accomplish had we access to this sort of miracle cure,” I whispered, flipping my opera glasses closed.
Sir Richard, seated in the row behind us, leaned forward. “The sultan has no patience for unhappy endings. And when one who is the absolute ruler of an empire—a man claiming both secular and spiritual control over people who, technically, are little more than his slaves—has no patience for something, it is forbidden.”
I bit back laughter and glanced across the spectacular theater to the royal box, where Abdül Hamit II sat, nodding, an enormous smile on his face. Next to him was Perestu, the valide sultan—the sultan’s mother—the most powerful woman in the empire. Her petite body still showed signs of the beauty she’d possessed in her youth, and although many of the women in the harem were said to have adopted a Westernized sort of dress, Perestu clung to traditional outfits that were at once elegant and, to European eyes, exotic. Tonight she wore a long, slender dress fashioned from green silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread, wide sleeves hanging over her wrists to her fingertips, a short-sleeved, sheer black robe covering the gown. Her long dark hair hung in two braids down her back, and on her head sat a headdress, reminiscent of a small fez, draped in muslin, an enormous ruby pinned to its front. Rings graced each of the fingers on her henna-painted hands. Her regal bearing surpassed any I’d seen before. Behind the royal pair, four menacing guards stood against the back wall, their thick arms crossed, no hint of amusement on their faces.
“ ‘Here’s a pretty mess! / In a month, or less, / I must die without a wedding! / Let the bitter tears I’m shedding / Witness my distress,’ ” Colin sang under his breath as the applause faded after the curtain fell. “The proper words are much better.”
“Agreed,” I said, slipping my arm through his and dropping my head onto his shoulder as we made our way out of the theater. “I prefer Violetta’s untimely demise to this happy ending.”
“Bloody unromantic of you.”
“I’m a beast, you know,” I said.
“It’s why I married you.” We’d stepped outside, falling behind the sultan and his entourage. The night was warm for spring, the air heavy with humidity and the sweet scent of flowers. Above us, stars dangled, so dazzling bright that I felt certain they could compete with the moon. “Now, if we can just slip away before—”
A ragged, sharp cry pierced the night, and in an instant silence fell over the gay crowd on the theater steps. The garden around us seemed darker, and the stars lost all their brightness. The screaming continued, but now it was accompanied by the sound of slippers on gravel, and I turned to see a beautiful young woman, dark hair streaming behind her in a tangled mess, running towards us.
“Come! Help! Please!” she cried, pausing only long enough to speak, then running again. Before she had covered more than a few yards, two of the sultan’s muscular guards stopped her. She struggled against them, and words that I could not hear were exchanged. Abdül Hamit stepped forward, and she flung herself onto the ground in front of him, all but grabbing his feet as the valide sultan watched. He muttered something, and the girl stood, shaking, not looking directly at him. His words appeared to soothe her, but before she could respond, a circle of guards surrounded him and the group disappeared into the night.
“Need to keep the sultan safe if there’s trouble,” came Sir Richard’s voice from behind me. “He grows more paranoid with each passing day. There’s no one in the empire he’s not having watched.”
“Should that make me feel safe or threatened?” I asked. Perestu had remained behind, taking the girl firmly by the arm and ordering the remaining guards to give her space as we all started down a path lit by a series of gilded torches. They obeyed at once. Colin dropped my arm and went towards them, catching up with a few long strides. I started to follow him, but Sir Richard stopped me.
“What do you think you’re doing? If there’s danger, we must get you back to your house at once.”
“I can’t imagine I’m in the slightest danger here,” I said. “There are guards everywhere.” I set off after Colin as quickly as my evening shoes would allow, frowning when a heel caught in the gravel and my ankle twisted fiercely. All the while I was fighting a stitch in my side caused, no doubt, by my tightly laced corset. I’d expected clothing to be an impediment to honeymoon bliss, but not like this.
Sir Richard caught up to me almost at once and gripped my wrist, a handful of sullen-looking men wearing fezzes trailing behind us. “I won’t let you go alone,” he said. “She’s from the harem. One of the concubines.” I strained to get a better look at the woman, ignoring the pain in my ankle, but she was too far ahead.
“How do you know?”
“It was obvious from her exchange with the sultan. She—” He stopped. We’d reached a small garden. Bright red bougainvillea cascaded from tall stone walls, and an elaborate fountain, carved in the shape of a fish, stood in the center of a smooth marble pavement. The pulse of falling water, soft but insistent, bounced off the walls and warded off the silence that descended upon us as we all froze, horrified at the sight before us.
A body was splayed on the ground, facedown, red gold hair shimmering in the torches’ dancing light, a ghastly contrast to the inhuman stillness of the form. My throat burned and my stomach clenched, the sweet smell of the flowers now cloying. The valide sultan, who was standing next to the woman who’d brought us to this scene, took her hand and led her away, back towards the palace. No doubt she imagined the girl had seen enough. Colin bent down and brushed the hair away from the injured woman’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
As he did this, Sir Richard came forward, unsteady on his feet. He knelt next to the body, his breath ragged, and pushed Colin out of the way.
“Sir Richard?” I followed and put a hand on his shoulder; he was trembling.
“No,” he said. “No. It’s not possible. It’s not—” He gathered up her hair, twisting it gently off her neck, revealing alabaster white skin and a striking tattoo: a grid like that used to play noughts and crosses, but set at an angle with three letters beneath it. “Ceyden, my dear girl. No,” he cried out, his voice sharp with pain.
He gingerly turned over the body and studied the girl’s face, her deep blue eyes staring blankly at the night sky, a thin purple bruise spanning her throat. All emotion fell from his face, wrinkles smoothed, his skin blanched, as he cradled her lifeless head in his arms.
His voice broke and shattered. “She is the daughter who was stolen from me twenty years ago.”
Sir Richard’s response to this horrific scene scared me. He raged at those around him, unwilling to let anyone touch his daughter. Despite his thin frame, he pushed off the guards, who stood, awkward, casting uncertain glances at the growing crowd in the courtyard. Colin was speaking to the man in charge, and nearly everyone who’d been in the theater was now pushing into the garden, agitated murmurs and whispers dull replacements for the soothing sound of the fountain. A man in evening dress, his tie askew, hair rumpled, stepped forward and crossed to the largest of the guards.
“May I offer any assistance? I am an old friend.” He faced Sir Richard, taking him by the shoulders and giving a soft shake. “I know your pain all too well. Lashing out will not help right now.”
“How could I have so failed her?” Sir Richard said, shrugging him off and turning back to his daughter. He stood only for a moment before he collapsed, sobbing, over her body. I knelt beside him, knowing there were no words that could offer meaningful comfort. The guards began to clear out the area, demanding that everyone save the grieving father leave. I asked if I could stay with him, as did his friend—who introduced himself to me.
“Theodore Sutcliffe,” he said, keeping his voice low as Sir Richard answered whatever questions the guards were asking. “I’ve known the old boy for years—we’re both at the embassy.”
“How lucky for him to find a friend near at such a moment,” I said. “Are you close?”
“We’ve both lost children.”
“I’m sorry. I—” I stumbled over the words, not sure how to deal with yet more tragedy. Colin interrupted before I was able to offer my condolences.
“Take him to the house,” he said. “They’re going to need to examine the body—I don’t want him to witness that. I’ll be along as soon as it’s finished.”
“Of course,” I said. “Mr. Sutcliffe, would you come with us? It might comfort him to have you there as well.”
“I shall be with him at every step. He won’t be alone in his sad journey.”
When we arrived at the
“I wish I could offer you port,” I said, pouring another cup of the pale, steaming liquid. Port was my own preferred beverage. I’d first tried it merely to make a point. After dinner, ladies were supposed to be herded out of
