Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“Miss Sybil was picked up by a eunuch in a carriage early this morning. She said she was visiting a member of the Ottoman royal family,” the butler says officiously.

Kamil tries to keep his voice patient. “Do you remember who she was visiting?” Bernie paces the floor behind him.

“No, sir. I’m sorry, I don’t.” A note of anxiety has slipped into his voice. “Has something happened?”

Bernie strides over and confronts the butler. “Freddie, aren’t you responsible for knowing what goes on here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then how can you not know where Miss Sybil has gone?”

“She didn’t tell me, sir. It wouldn’t be proper for me to ask.”

Bernie regards him with a look of disgust. “It’s your business to find out, Freddie, not just let anyone walk off with her.”

Freddie barks at a servant to fetch the head English gatekeeper. The young man hurries away.

Kamil asks the disheveled butler kindly, “When were you expecting her to return?”

The butler’s eyes move to the dusk infiltrating the Residence windows. “She usually returns in time for dinner.”

Kamil turns to Bernie. “I was expected for dinner about an hour ago.”

“The ambassador has just finished dining, sir. I’m sorry.” The butler looks abashed. “If Miss Sybil isn’t here, he eats in his office,” he explains.

Bernie’s voice is menacing, “And you didn’t think to be alarmed when Miss Sybil didn’t return, even though she had invited a guest to dinner?”

“What could I do, sir? She’s probably just delayed,” he adds uncertainly.

Kamil takes Bernie aside and asks, “Should we tell the ambassador?”

Bernie shakes his head. “Do more harm than good. My uncle is a good man, but, between us, a bit of a loose cannon.”

“I know what you mean.” Kamil is relieved not to have to deal with Sybil’s father now. He wants to find Sybil, and it is all he can do to stop himself from rushing out the door.

“Do the maids know anything?” he asks Bernie.

“No. I talked to the whole staff. The maid who helped Sybil dress said she told her she was going to visit someone in the palace. That’s all. Let’s go look in her room.” He strides up the stairs two at a time, Kamil right behind him.

With some trepidation at this invasion of a woman’s forbidden realm, Kamil follows Bernie into Sybil’s bedroom. The room is spare but feminine, all white and beige, the room’s outlines blurred by soft fabrics edged with delicate laces.

“Over here.” Bernie gestures at a piece of paper lying on Sybil’s writing desk.

They read Sybil’s letter together. Kamil is startled by the revelation that she was waiting for him to ask for her in marriage.

“Damnation. Let’s go find her.” Bernie calls down to the butler, “Get Sami. We need the phaeton.” He turns to Kamil. “It’ll be faster.”

When they arrive downstairs, Freddie is gone, but the gatekeeper is there. They ask who picked Sybil up that morning.

“The, er, the eunitch”-the gatekeeper blushes scarlet as he pronounces the word-“the Negro, ’e gave me a paper.” He holds out a piece of expensive parchment with a gold-embossed crest. On it are two lines of Ottoman in a practiced calligraphy, sealed in red. “I couldn’t read it, sir.”

Bernie snatches the paper out of his hand. “It never occurred to you to ask someone what it said? If anything’s happened to Miss Sybil, it’ll be on your head.” The gatekeeper looks horrified.

“Miss Sybil?” he stutters. “What’s ’appened to ’er?”

Ignoring him, Bernie shows the paper to Kamil. “What does it say? I have trouble with this kind of fancy writing.”

“It’s an invitation to lunch.”

“From Asma Sultan.”

“No. From Shukriye Hanoum.” They look at each other speechlessly.

Kamil adds, “It’s her family’s seal.”

“What in damnation…?” He looks over Kamil’s shoulder. “Where?”

“It doesn’t say. It only specifies the date and time and that Shukriye Hanoum’s servant will pick her up.”

“But the eunuch brought it when he came to get her. It wasn’t sent ahead of time.”

“There must have been an earlier message. Clearly, this one is meant to deceive anyone looking for her.”

“Mother of God. If Sybil hadn’t left that letter, we’d be off on a wild goose chase. Come on in here. Be quick, man.”

Bernie runs into a room off the main hall, pulls a volume from the bookshelf, and extracts a key. He unlocks a drawer and pulls out two pistols. He checks to see if they are loaded, then holds one out to Kamil. Kamil points at his feet. “I’m armed.”

“You mean with that religious mumbo jumbo in your boots?” Bernie snorts. “That won’t get you very far against a bullet!”

Kamil pulls a needle-thin blade from his boot. “Allah helps those who help themselves.” He opens his coat to reveal the holster on his hip. “I need some paper.”

Bernie points to a writing desk.

Kamil takes out a blank sheet and writes several lines in Ottoman, the script flowing smoothly right to left. He signs with a flourish, then rummages in the drawer and pulls out a cylinder of sealing wax. He removes a small brass seal from his pocket and imprints the insignia of his office on the bottom of the letter and again on the envelope.

Sami is waiting at the door with the phaeton. Kamil takes him aside and hands him the envelope.

“You are to mount the fastest horse in your stables and ride ahead of us to Middle Village. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, efendi. I know the area well.”

“Take this letter directly to the headman of Middle Village. It asks him to take his sons and go to the commander of gendarmes, not to the police. Sybil Hanoum’s life may be in danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes, efendi. Not the police.”

“Go with him. The headman is to show them this letter. It commands the gendarmes to issue them weapons and to accompany them to Asma Sultan’s summer house in Tarabya immediately. Allah willing, their presence will be superfluous.”

Kamil jumps into the phaeton. Bernie is already seated, hunched forward and restlessly twisting the reins.

“If we alerted the British guards, we’d have to tell the ambassador,” Kamil shouts. “And I’m not sure of the loyalty of the police anymore. This is the best way.”

The horses clatter down the drive toward the gate.

Iwanted a celebration, a proper setting for my response to Mary. Violet insisted on coming, saying she had prepared special foods for us. By the time we arrived at the sea hamam and the driver was dispatched with instructions to return in three hours’ time, the lip of the sky bled magenta. But inside the walls of the sea hamam, we could see only the sky’s unclouded blue eye following Violet as she spread the covers, set up the brazier, and unpacked the copper pans of dolma, cheese pastries, fruit, and savories. It was a feast. I slipped off my feradje, revealing a new gown of sheerest apricot silk under a striped satin tunic of apple and ginger. My breasts were wreathed in a transparent cloud of silk gauze. My hair was woven into a hundred braids wrapped in diamonds and pearls.

Mary had taken off her shoes. Her slim white feet dangled over the pool. In water, she was slippery as an eel. Like most women, she couldn’t swim, but the water in the sea hamam wasn’t very deep. I remember it made her anxious when I ducked below the surface. I used to slip along under the boards and burst up in a spray behind her so that she shrieked with fear. The hamam walls protected us from the wind, and the strait here was tamed, drawn continually like a fan across the sand. The water was so clear one could mistake it for a shadow.