Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“How awful,” Sybil exclaims, shivering with cold and an unnamed anxiety. “Who would have done something like that?”

“She was Russian, Sybil Hanoum. The enemy was at the gates of the city. Perhaps they listened in on her silent communion with her uncles. I’m sure Sultan Abdulhamid feared her. He destroyed her like he destroyed my father.”

Asma Sultan suddenly scrapes her chair back and stands. She leads the way to a plush divan on a sheltered portion of the terrace.

“Let us sit over here. It’s more comfortable. Tell me about your life, Sybil Hanoum,” she says lightly, as if nothing of consequence has been revealed.

Sybil sinks gratefully onto the soft pillows and wraps her shawl around her shoulders.

“I’ve hardly been anywhere. I came here when I was young. I have memories of the Essex countryside, a very brief stay in London, and then Stamboul. Which is lovely,” she adds hastily.

“Ah, then you have traveled much farther than I, my dear. Tell me about Essex. You spoke of it the other day, but we were interrupted.”

As they reminisce, the sun edges closer to the wooded hills. The eunuch serves coffee.

When Sybil has finished sipping from the tiny cobalt blue cup, Asma Sultan reaches for it and turns it upside down on its saucer. She smiles slyly.

“I can tell your fortune.”

“Your Highness has unexpected talents,” Sybil laughs. She feels reckless, but also lulled by the jewellike fruit on her plate, the flashing expanse of water at her feet, the precious memory already framing itself in her mind of dining with royalty in the most beautiful spot in the world.

Asma Sultan tests the bottom of the cup several times with her slender finger. When she judges it to have sufficiently cooled, she picks the cup up and peers into it intently. After a few moments, she tilts it slightly to show Sybil.

“See? There is your past and here is your future.” She points to clots and filigrees of rich brown that coat the sides of the cup, coffee ground as fine as powder.

“Can you read me my future, Your Highness?” Kamil must be there, she thinks with the guilty hope that her desire be revealed as fact.

“Of course, my dear, of course.” Asma Sultan scrutinizes the inside of the cup, turning it this way and that until Sybil fears she can no longer bear to wait.

Finally, Asma Sultan says, “The past is the vessel of the future. Let me try to understand the shape of the vessel first.”

“Yes, of course,” Sybil responds, disappointed.

“A man, an old man who has known you all your life. Here he is.” She points to a long streak extending from the dregs to the rim of the cup.

“That must be my father.”

“There is also a woman here, a mother, your mother, I think. You were very close to her.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Here she disappears from your life.” Pointing into the cup, she looks up. “I’m sorry for your bereavement.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Gulls argue hoarsely high above. “She’s been gone some years now.”

“And here are other women of the same age as you.”

“One must be my sister, Maitlin. I don’t know the others. Who might they be?”

Asma Sultan twists the cup and holds it close to her eye. “They are English. I see this by their dresses.”

“Goodness,” Sybil exclaims. “You can see that much detail?”

Fixing her black eyes on Sybil. “Oh, yes, my daughter, I can see.”

“Two Englishwomen? In my past? My aunt, perhaps.”

“Recent past. The cup is deep with time and I am moving up toward the future.”

“Then perhaps someone at the embassy.”

“Is there a woman important to you? A simple employee wouldn’t appear in your cup.”

Sybil thinks. “Really, I can think of no one who is English. I have a close acquaintance, but she is Italian.”

“No.” The slight tone of impatience in Asma Sultan’s voice is immediately submerged by resignation.

“Ah, my foolish girl. You do not see your life as clearly as the eye of this cup does.”

Stung, Sybil prompts, “Perhaps I’ll have better success with my future.”

“No, no, we cannot go on until the past has been fully explored. These women, look here, their signs end. Perhaps they returned to England?”

“Good heavens. It must be the two governesses. They have played quite a prominent role in my life of late.”

“Governesses?”

“Hannah Simmons and Mary Dixon. The governesses who were killed. We spoke of them the other day at Shukriye Hanoum’s.”

“Of course. But why are they in the vessel of your past? You must have known them well, that they should play such a big role in your life?”

“No, I didn’t know Hannah at all and I met Mary only a few times. We barely spoke. I suppose they appear in the cup because of their murders. I’ve been helping with the inquiry.” Sybil couldn’t quite hide the pride in her voice.

“I see.” Asma Sultan’s eyes slide closed for a moment. “Please continue.”

“Well.” She hesitates. “It seems the two deaths might be linked.”

“Linked? How?”

“Of course, to start with, both were employed by the palace. And they were found in the same area.”

“Where was that?”

“One at Chamyeri and one at Middle Village.”

“Those are some distance apart.”

“Mary’s clothes were found at Chamyeri.”

“I see. But all this might have been coincidence. Were there any other links?”

Sybil hesitates again, remembering Kamil’s warning, but decides that the horse has bolted from the stable. She had already spoken of this at Leyla’s. “They both had the same necklace.”

“Why would that be of significance? Perhaps they frequented the same jeweler.”

“But it had a tughra and a Chinese inscription.”

“What did the inscription say?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t remember.” Sybil is flustered. “Something about a bowstring.”

There is a pause before Asma Sultan asks, “That is unusual, but what would it have to do with their deaths?”

“It’s not as trivial as it seems. It’s possible that it’s a secret code for some kind of plot against the sultan.” She tries to be matter-of-fact, but excitement and pride color her voice.

Asma Sultan smiles thinly. “That is indeed important. So, these are the two women shaping your future.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Your Highness. I’m just helping, nothing more.”

“Who else shares your theory of a plot centered on that necklace?”

“It’s Kamil Pasha’s idea, not mine.”

“Who is this Kamil Pasha?”

“Magistrate of Beyoglu Lower Court, Your Highness.”

“Ah, Alp Pasha’s son.”

“Do you know him?” Sybil asks, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

Bemused, Asma Sultan responds, “I knew his mother. You are fond of the magistrate?”

“Why, no.” Blushing. “I mean, I think he’s a splendid investigator. If anyone can discover the truth of the matter, he can.”

“I see. And who does he think is behind this plot-or is it plots? Has he had anyone arrested yet?”

“I don’t think he knows yet. I suppose Hannah and Mary couldn’t be involved in the same plot, since there are so many years between them. But it is odd that they both had that necklace, isn’t it?”

“Forgive me. It all sounds rather fanciful.”

“Yes, when I tell it to you like this, it does rather.” Sybil smiles wanly.

Asma Sultan’s intent questioning has made her uncomfortably aware that she has broken her promise to Kamil. She has lost any desire to hear her future foretold. The shadow of the villa has fallen over the patio, and her shawl is no longer sufficient to warm her. Sybil considers the long shadows and becomes concerned about the time. She is suddenly anxious to get away.