glass windows dim the rays of the sun, make them dance with colours of amber and silvery dust. There are no chairs, but a few big cushions on a raised sofa covered with Persian carpets. The scent of honeysuckle joins the jessamine, the scent that penetrates her hair, her dress, clings to her skin.
Is this how the Sultan smells, she wonders. Is his skin as soft as she imagines? As cool as the tiles?
‘Don’t say anything until you are asked,’ her mother whispers. Her face is pale and her eyes dart around the room. What is it that she wants to find?
‘Don’t look at the Princess. Keep your eyes down.’
Mana has removed her own kerchief and wraps another layer of cloth over her daughter’s hair.
What if the Sultan will not care for her? What if he takes one look at her and sends her back?
But these are thoughts easily laughed away. In her heart of hearts she trusts her joy. A woman the Sultan summons becomes a
quadin
, a chosen one.
‘Someone must have seen you,’ Mana hisses, her voice rough with anger. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to wander alone.’
The servant woman who enters the antechamber is wearing a pink kaftan over blue drawers, her hand touching her heart and lips in greeting. Silent, she beckons with her right hand and they follow, their heels clicking on the tiles. They walk through long winding corridors of closed doors, past a big room where women sit on big satin cushions, smoking
nargila
, working on their embroidery. One of them with diamonds in her turban, sitting on a lap of a Negress throws herself into her arms as if to hide in them. In another room a woman in a red dress is bending over a big loom, absorbed in the invisible patterns. To Sophie these images seem like pieces of a puzzle,a mystery she alone would be allowed to solve. This is making her deaf to Mana’s sighs.
The Princess is wearing a vest of purple cloth, set with pearls on each side down to her feet and round her sleeves. It is tied at the waist with two large tassels embroidered with diamonds. Her shift is fastened with an emerald as big as a turkey egg. In the middle of her headdress two roses glitter, each made of a large ruby surrounded with clean diamonds. She is seated on a big silk-covered cushion, like an enormous animal at rest, its belly still full, but its eyes already on the lookout for the next meal. Her arms are strong and muscular, her skin smooth. Her black eyes, lined with kohl, are short-sighted for she leans forward as she speaks.
‘You have come,’ she says, as if their obedience surprised her. ‘Welcome to my home.’
Perhaps, Sophie thinks, the Princess has been sent to appraise her, to see if she is worthy of the Sultan’s time. The Ottoman Princess, blessed with the riches of her father, her body cared for by her army of slaves, scraped, massaged and perfumed with the most precious of scents. Her hands are too big though, in spite of all the beautiful rings. Five on her right hand only. Two have diamonds bigger than hazelnuts.
‘Your Highness,’ she says, with her loveliest smile. ‘Is too kind.’
The Princess gives a sign and servants enter with wooden trays, carrying sweets and strong Turkish coffee, its aroma filling the air. There are dried apricots, figs, raisins and dates from Basra, the sweetest that there are. Nuts in a gilded bowl. Fresh figs too, black and green. A jug of sherbet to drink. A sherbet for which, Sophie is told, snow has been fetched all the way from the highest mountains of India.
‘I love figs,’ Sophie says brightly and clasps her hands in delight.
It’s too late for Mana’s look of warning. The Princess laughs too and promises that such a sweet child, such a beautiful girl could have all the figs in the Ottoman Kingdom. And apricots, and raisins. And pistachio nuts and sweet dark coffee that races in the veins and brings flashes of colour to the cheeks.
She can have everything she wants. Beautiful dresses. Shawls. Velvet and damask and silk that the
Is this how the Sultan smells, she wonders. Is his skin as soft as she imagines? As cool as the tiles?
‘Don’t say anything until you are asked,’ her mother whispers. Her face is pale and her eyes dart around the room. What is it that she wants to find?
‘Don’t look at the Princess. Keep your eyes down.’
Mana has removed her own kerchief and wraps another layer of cloth over her daughter’s hair.
What if the Sultan will not care for her? What if he takes one look at her and sends her back?
But these are thoughts easily laughed away. In her heart of hearts she trusts her joy. A woman the Sultan summons becomes a
quadin
, a chosen one.
‘Someone must have seen you,’ Mana hisses, her voice rough with anger. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to wander alone.’
The servant woman who enters the antechamber is wearing a pink kaftan over blue drawers, her hand touching her heart and lips in greeting. Silent, she beckons with her right hand and they follow, their heels clicking on the tiles. They walk through long winding corridors of closed doors, past a big room where women sit on big satin cushions, smoking
nargila
, working on their embroidery. One of them with diamonds in her turban, sitting on a lap of a Negress throws herself into her arms as if to hide in them. In another room a woman in a red dress is bending over a big loom, absorbed in the invisible patterns. To Sophie these images seem like pieces of a puzzle,a mystery she alone would be allowed to solve. This is making her deaf to Mana’s sighs.
The Princess is wearing a vest of purple cloth, set with pearls on each side down to her feet and round her sleeves. It is tied at the waist with two large tassels embroidered with diamonds. Her shift is fastened with an emerald as big as a turkey egg. In the middle of her headdress two roses glitter, each made of a large ruby surrounded with clean diamonds. She is seated on a big silk-covered cushion, like an enormous animal at rest, its belly still full, but its eyes already on the lookout for the next meal. Her arms are strong and muscular, her skin smooth. Her black eyes, lined with kohl, are short-sighted for she leans forward as she speaks.
‘You have come,’ she says, as if their obedience surprised her. ‘Welcome to my home.’
Perhaps, Sophie thinks, the Princess has been sent to appraise her, to see if she is worthy of the Sultan’s time. The Ottoman Princess, blessed with the riches of her father, her body cared for by her army of slaves, scraped, massaged and perfumed with the most precious of scents. Her hands are too big though, in spite of all the beautiful rings. Five on her right hand only. Two have diamonds bigger than hazelnuts.
‘Your Highness,’ she says, with her loveliest smile. ‘Is too kind.’
The Princess gives a sign and servants enter with wooden trays, carrying sweets and strong Turkish coffee, its aroma filling the air. There are dried apricots, figs, raisins and dates from Basra, the sweetest that there are. Nuts in a gilded bowl. Fresh figs too, black and green. A jug of sherbet to drink. A sherbet for which, Sophie is told, snow has been fetched all the way from the highest mountains of India.
‘I love figs,’ Sophie says brightly and clasps her hands in delight.
It’s too late for Mana’s look of warning. The Princess laughs too and promises that such a sweet child, such a beautiful girl could have all the figs in the Ottoman Kingdom. And apricots, and raisins. And pistachio nuts and sweet dark coffee that races in the veins and brings flashes of colour to the cheeks.
She can have everything she wants. Beautiful dresses. Shawls. Velvet and damask and silk that the
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