Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“My dear dayi,” I said, “you’re the one who has worried and suffered for all of us. I’m so sorry to have been an added burden to you.”

“My daughter, there was never a burden as sweet as you. I thank Allah for bringing you into my life.”

He paused for a moment, then continued.

“Jaanan, I’m sorry, but I must tell you. Your mother has passed away.”

I felt nothing. Or rather, only a rushing sound far away, as if a monumental wave were coming closer, but was still too far away for me to run for cover. How did I know about such waves? They were there in Violet’s sea, in the lost fingers of Halil the gardener. They were the crushing, grinding behemoths that tortured Hamza’s sea glass on their forges of sand until the stones glowed from within like blue eyes.

I was speechless. What opportunities had I missed? My hand remembered the feel of cold satin like a ghost limb.

Ismail Dayi tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away.

“What happened?” My voice sounded too steady, too matter-of-fact, and I felt ashamed of that too.

“She caught a draft and it went to her lungs. It was very rapid. May your life be spared, my dear.”

He squeezed my arm. His touch opened a channel through which a current of sorrow began to flow. But I resisted it. Another vein of weakness when so much of me had run dry.

The waves were nearer. I bowed my head and let them rage through me, but said nothing.

Ismail Dayi stared sadly into the fire. “I never told her you were lost. I told her you had gone to your father’s. I didn’t want to worry her. She loved you greatly, my dear daughter.”

It was late spring that year when Mary finally came to visit me. I hadn’t seen her since the fall. I took her hand and led her into the harem reception room. Now that Mama had cut the thread that bound her to the world, I was mistress of the cool blue and white tiles and splashing water. My body moved to a different music learned in Galata. I felt powerful. I wondered whether something in Mary would stir in response.

We sat on the divan. I signaled Violet to bring us tea. Mary was dressed in a loose white gown embroidered with red flowers that echoed the enamel blossoms in the gold cross she always wore at the base of her throat. It had been her mother’s, she told me when I admired it. A lace bodice hid the mole on her shoulder.

Violet stood by the door, silver tray balanced in her hands.

“Put it here, Violet,” I called, my eyes studying Mary. She seemed absorbed in the movement of the tray, following it to the low table, watching Violet’s strong hands pour the coffee into tiny cups.

We waited for Violet to leave.

“I’m sorry about your mother’s death. I thought, I must come to see you.”

“Thank you, Mary. That is kind of you.”

I said nothing to her about about my stay at Madame Devora’s. It was a willing union that undid the other, unwilling one. I had found Hamza’s sea glass necklace at the bottom of my jewelry casket and now kept it close to my breast.

Our cups chimed in the awkward silence.

“You know, I tried to come see you before, but your maid told me you weren’t here. She wouldn’t tell me anything more. Where did you go?”

“I was at my father’s house in Nishantashou,” I quickly improvised.

“Of course.” She looked at me curiously and I was suddenly afraid she had also sought me there. “I wish I had known. It’s much closer. Why didn’t you send me a message? Didn’t you know I was back?”

Seeing my look of confusion, she spat out, “Violet, again.”

I glanced quickly at the door, then nodded. “I’ve received no letters since winter.”

I could see Mary fighting down her anger. “Well, we’re here now. I know you haven’t gone out much since you speared that bastard Amin last year. I’m sure a stay in the city did you good.”

I was surprised that the mention of his name no longer affected me.

“Well, I haven’t been invited to many society events since then. I suppose people blame me, and perhaps they’re right to. I was very stupid. I always thought I should be able to move about without a chaperone like any modern woman.”

“In England, young women of quality”-she worked the word uneasily in her mouth, like a moldy fruit-“also are guarded by female watchdogs. It has nothing to do with being modern. We still hold the leashes of our own sex.”

Women of quality. Mary did not seem to be quality in the English way, which I presumed to mean much the same as here-wealth and indolence. Was I still a woman of quality? I was wealthy, was I not? And inactive, again imprisoned in my golden cage at Chamyeri.

“You must have been bored out here,” she continued. “That Violet can’t be a very pleasant companion. She’s so sour she’d curdle milk.” I didn’t tell her that the object of her scorn was probably listening on the other side of the door. Her description of Violet irritated me.

“She was my companion when we were younger, and she has been a good and loyal servant to my family. There is no cause to disparage her.”

She reached over and took my hand. “I meant no offense. Forgive me.”

My small hand nestled inside hers like a young bird.

“I’ve missed you, Jaanan. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but I haven’t forgotten.” She smiled at me uncertainly. “I wrote to you often. And I had to go back to England for a while. I hope you don’t blame me for not coming to see you after I returned. It was impossible to get up here. The roads were impassable and none of the delivery boats would take me. Believe me, I tried. And then, when the roads were open, I thought you went away. I wish I had known you were in Stamboul,” she added fiercely.

I looked into her light blue eyes, the color of beads used to ward off the evil eye. When I didn’t respond, her hands parted the gauze panels of my veil and lifted them behind my shoulders. I felt suddenly naked, as I had never felt in the room in Galata.

To cover my confusion, I said in a polite voice, “Please have some more coffee.” I rang the silver bell by my side.

We sat silently until Violet arrived with the coffeepot. She looked at us slyly from under her lashes.

Had I changed in some fundamental way? People project themselves onto the screen of society like shadow puppets. Perhaps the lamplight was too low and I was no longer recognizable. Had I forgotten my lines? Was there a plot at all? I no longer believed so.

Violet spilled some coffee on Mary’s arm, then tried to wipe it away with her hand. Embarrassed, I pushed her away from Mary and asked her to leave. I dabbed gently at Mary’s arm with an embroidered cloth. Violet had been a restless shadow to my every movement since my return. I asked her to sleep in her old room at the back of the house, but found her waiting for me wherever I came and went. I understood that she must feel guilty about leaving me in that coach, but explained to her that no harm had come of it. I had asked Ismail Dayi to find her a husband, as was his duty as her patron. I suppose she knew of this, since she listened at doors.

Violet still stood by the door, her black eyes intensely following every move of my hand as if she were devouring it. Mary too noticed and shifted uncomfortably.

“Make fresh coffee.” I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my voice. While I was away, she had slipped out of my control.

Mary’s stockinged feet dangled uselessly from the divan, her slippers fallen to the carpet. I had hoped to please her with Mama’s reception room, but she didn’t seem to notice her surroundings. I straightened the gold bracelet on her wrist that Violet had knocked awry, my affection relearning its accustomed channels. I was reminded of her great kindness, and my body relaxed toward her.