Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“I am,” I said.

“This is for you.” He handed me an envelope made from thick, creamy paper and disappeared into the crowd around me. With shaking hands, I tore it open, almost afraid to read.

My dear Lady Emily, the game is up. You’ve gone too far and I’ve had to take actions I did not wish to. I have Roxelana. She will be alive for thirty more minutes unless you present yourself to me in exchange for her. She is easily frightened, not at all like my own brave girl who complained not once during the final hours of her illness, and I find myself already tired of her crying. How would you like me to silence her? I am at the Basilica Cistern, the Yerebatan Sarayı . You will have to figure out how to get there. Just be sure to come quickly and to come alone. If there’s anyone else with you, it will end badly for us all.

I felt short of breath, and my throat ached as I gulped for air. I was not foolish enough to believe I could pull this off alone—it was worse than any situation I could have imagined. I’d thought any danger Roxelana faced would come from the sultan. There was little time to consider options, so I took the first reasonable one that sprang to mind. I asked my waiter to point me to the police—he located an officer patrolling the bazaar and stopped him at once. Not wanting to waste even a moment, I pressed the note—which was obviously from Mr. Sutcliffe—into the man’s hand and explained as efficiently as possible that he must send help and get word to the British embassy at once.

He looked at me as if I were insane, and I could not pause long enough to convince him otherwise. Instead, I ran to the nearest exit, hired the first carriage I saw, and made my way to the cistern. It was only because I’d read so extensively about the city that I was even aware of it, finding it described in the travel memoirs of an Italian gentleman. Near the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya, it had been built in Roman times to bring water to the city, and families living above it still used it—taking its water from well-like openings in their basements.

Having no time to collect De Amicis’s book from the yalı , I had to rely on my memory. He’d described coming to the cistern through the garden of a nearby house. I’d reached the neighborhood and knew I was in the right general vicinity, but it was not apparent which house’s garden contained the entrance—so I could do nothing but knock on doors and hope someone could help me. On my third attempt, a veiled woman answered. She did not speak much English, but I kept repeating “Yerebatan Sarayı ” over and over, and at last she nodded and pointed me to the house across from hers. I raced there, only to find no one home.

I made my way around the building, hoping to find a way into the garden, through which I could reach the cistern, and my heart soared when I saw a green door, in dire need of new paint, in the wall. I pushed it open and rushed through it. Across from me was a stone arch, below which were steep stone steps, slick with water and moss, descending deep into darkness. Pleased that I had not bothered to empty out my reticule after last night’s adventure at the embassy, I pulled out the candle and matches I still had with me and lit them before making my way with great care down the stairs.

Every nerve in my body was shaking when I reached the closed door at the bottom. I opened it and stepped into an enormous domed underground chamber, its vaulted ceiling supported by arches above row after row of columns, hundreds of them. Water filled the room below the wooden platform on which I stood—and my candle reflected green in it, the color eerie, almost unholy. There was no sound but that of water dripping from the roof, pinging into the pool below, echoing relentlessly.

No sound, that is, until the door shut behind me, and I heard the unmistakable click of a bar latch snapping into place. I turned around, wanting to test it at once, only to find my fear all too real. The lock had fastened; I could not get out. Panic rose through me as the darkness of the space enveloped me, but there was nothing to do but move on.

I took a step forward, testing the wooden planks over the water before putting my whole weight on them, wondering at what point I’d face Sutcliffe. Was he behind a column? Waiting for me just beyond the light of my candle? I was sweating despite the coolness of the space and had to force my feet forward.

“I did say thirty minutes, did I not, Lady Emily?”

His voiced bounced around me; I could not tell where he stood.

“You’re using up all your time. Might want to hurry.”

And then I heard a muffled sob that fueled me to move forward with greater speed. “Let her go,” I said. “You can well see that I’m here and alone.”

“This is not a time for you to be making demands,” he said.

I bit back the reply on my lips and continued walking, trying to determine where Roxelana was. “What is it you want from me?” I asked.

“You should have left things alone,” he said. “There was no reason to interfere. All those deaths after Ceyden’s are on your conscience.”

“I have not killed anyone.”

“They would all be alive still if it weren’t for you.”

I wanted to keep him talking, to distract him while I came up with a viable strategy. “I know you killed Ceyden,” I said, wanting to test my suspicion.

“It doesn’t matter what I did so long as St. Clare thinks it was him.”

“You did kill her.”

He laughed. “I never dared hope my revenge would be so complete. The boy made it easy.”

“Roxelana?” I asked. “Where are you? Are you next to him?”

More muffled sobs, with a greater urgency this time. “Quiet!” he said.

I heard footsteps. He was on the walkway, not in the water. I looked over the edge of the path, gauging the depth. Fish darted, startled by the light, and their reaction inspired me. I could see clearly the bottom of the green pool, not more than three feet below the surface. I broke the top third off my candle and then tilted it so that the wax pooled on the wooden rail next to me, until there was enough to hold the luminary upright. Sticking it hard into the middle of the melted mass, I held it in place until the wax had cooled. I backed away, wanting to distance myself from the light. Then, hiking up my skirts to my knees, I ducked beneath the rail and stepped into the water as quietly as possible and stood, perfectly still.

“Are you waiting for me to come to you?” he asked. The light from his torch—much stronger than that thrown by my candle—bounced between walls and water as he spun around, looking for me. Moving in silence, careful not to splash in the water, I walked away from the door across the open expanse of the pool, keeping far from the space illuminated around him.

Every time I reached a column I would pause, resting against it, wishing I could slow my heart, that my legs would stop shaking. And then I would continue on, moving in a wide half circle until I’d come almost close enough to see him from behind.

“I am not amused, Lady Emily,” he said, still watching for me. “I can kill her now. Come to me at once.”

A metallic clicking told me he was readying a gun. My breath was coming too fast now, my eyes stinging from the sweat dripping down my brow. I could not let Roxelana die. A few more steps and I could see her. He’d been holding her by the arm but had to let go to pull the pistol out from his belt, keeping the torch held high, looking all the while in the direction of my candle.

I knew better than to think I could get the gun from him. There had to be another way. As I watched my candle’s flame in the distance, it came to me. Stepping back, I crouched behind a column, the base of which was a hideous head of Medusa, inverted so as to be upside down. I reached under my skirt and pulled off one of my petticoats, holding it under the water to flood every fiber of the cotton. Bundling it up into a loose but heavy ball, I wrapped it in my skirts and again moved towards them.