startled face rises momentarily from his papers.
Sybil’s eyes flash with amusement. Then she says softly, “How terribly sad. You say she was young?”
“Yes, in her twenties. Small, slim, blonde hair. Some jewelry was found with her.” He reaches for the handkerchief still on the ambassador’s desk. “Would you permit me?”
“Yes, I’ll look at them.” Her skin has gone the color of parchment, revealing a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. She leans over to take the bundle from Kamil. Her hands are plump, dimpled at the knuckles. Her fingers taper to tiny oval fingernails translucent as seashells. She places the bundle in her lap and unwraps it.
“Poor woman,” she murmurs as she strokes each item in turn. She picks up the cross, her face creasing into a frown.
“What is it?” Kamil asks eagerly.
“I’ve seen this, but I can’t remember where. At an evening function of some sort, probably at one of the embassies.” She looks up. “Can you tell me anything more about her?”
“Only that her hair was cut rather short and that she had a large mole on her right shoulder.”
“Yes, of course!” Her face crumples. “Oh, how simply awful.”
Kamil feels a thrill. She knows who it is.
The ambassador looks up at her, then over at Kamil, his face disapproving. He sighs heavily, “I say, Sybil, dear.” He remains in his chair, his fingers compulsively smoothing the paper before him.
Kamil stands and walks to her chair.
“Sybil Hanoum.” He gently takes the bundle from her hands and replaces it with another clean handkerchief drawn from his pocket. Her slim, tapered fingers twine themselves in the fine linen and she dabs her eyes. Kamil never uses handkerchiefs for their intended purpose, a disgusting Frankish practice, but has found many other uses for a handy square of clean cloth.
“I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha.”
Kamil sits again and looks at her expectantly.
“It must be Mary Dixon.”
“Who is that, my dear?” the ambassador asks.
“You remember her, don’t you, Father? Mary is governess for Sultan Abdulaziz’s granddaughter, Perihan.”
“Abdulaziz, yes. Neurotic fellow. Committed suicide. Couldn’t take it when those reformists deposed him. Pushed him right over the edge. Must be hard when you’ve been all-powerful for fifteen years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Asked his mother for a pair of scissors to trim his beard. Used them to open his veins instead.” He regards the palm of his hand, then turns it over and stares at the back. “Nothing left. Just a suite of rooms in some hand-me-down palace.”
He looks up at Kamil, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Been a decade now. 1876, wasn’t it? June, I remember. Seemed an odd thing to do on such a warm day. Nice chap, dash it all.” He moves the piece of paper before him to the corner of the desk, then looks puzzled, as if he has lost something.
“Didn’t go much better for his replacement, eh?” he continues. “That Murad fellow, a tippler, from what I hear. Wasn’t sultan long enough for me to meet him. Had a nervous breakdown after only three months. Seems to be an occupational hazard.” He whinnies a laugh. “Can’t imagine why these reformists keep trying to put him back on the throne. Congenial fellow, I hear. Maybe that’s why.”
Kamil avoids meeting the blue eyes that are seeking his. Critical as he is of his own government, he feels offended by the ambassador’s disrespectful commentary.
He is startled by Sybil’s cheerful voice. “Wouldn’t you like some tea, Kamil Pasha?”
4
June 15, 1886
My Dearest Maitlin,
I hope that this letter finds you well and in good health and spirits. I have received no letters from you for several weeks. Much as I am aware of the vagaries that beset a missive on the long journey between Essex and Stamboul, nevertheless the lack of news from you, dearest sister, has worried me. I hope and pray that you, Richard, and my darling nephews
Sybil’s eyes flash with amusement. Then she says softly, “How terribly sad. You say she was young?”
“Yes, in her twenties. Small, slim, blonde hair. Some jewelry was found with her.” He reaches for the handkerchief still on the ambassador’s desk. “Would you permit me?”
“Yes, I’ll look at them.” Her skin has gone the color of parchment, revealing a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. She leans over to take the bundle from Kamil. Her hands are plump, dimpled at the knuckles. Her fingers taper to tiny oval fingernails translucent as seashells. She places the bundle in her lap and unwraps it.
“Poor woman,” she murmurs as she strokes each item in turn. She picks up the cross, her face creasing into a frown.
“What is it?” Kamil asks eagerly.
“I’ve seen this, but I can’t remember where. At an evening function of some sort, probably at one of the embassies.” She looks up. “Can you tell me anything more about her?”
“Only that her hair was cut rather short and that she had a large mole on her right shoulder.”
“Yes, of course!” Her face crumples. “Oh, how simply awful.”
Kamil feels a thrill. She knows who it is.
The ambassador looks up at her, then over at Kamil, his face disapproving. He sighs heavily, “I say, Sybil, dear.” He remains in his chair, his fingers compulsively smoothing the paper before him.
Kamil stands and walks to her chair.
“Sybil Hanoum.” He gently takes the bundle from her hands and replaces it with another clean handkerchief drawn from his pocket. Her slim, tapered fingers twine themselves in the fine linen and she dabs her eyes. Kamil never uses handkerchiefs for their intended purpose, a disgusting Frankish practice, but has found many other uses for a handy square of clean cloth.
“I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha.”
Kamil sits again and looks at her expectantly.
“It must be Mary Dixon.”
“Who is that, my dear?” the ambassador asks.
“You remember her, don’t you, Father? Mary is governess for Sultan Abdulaziz’s granddaughter, Perihan.”
“Abdulaziz, yes. Neurotic fellow. Committed suicide. Couldn’t take it when those reformists deposed him. Pushed him right over the edge. Must be hard when you’ve been all-powerful for fifteen years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Asked his mother for a pair of scissors to trim his beard. Used them to open his veins instead.” He regards the palm of his hand, then turns it over and stares at the back. “Nothing left. Just a suite of rooms in some hand-me-down palace.”
He looks up at Kamil, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Been a decade now. 1876, wasn’t it? June, I remember. Seemed an odd thing to do on such a warm day. Nice chap, dash it all.” He moves the piece of paper before him to the corner of the desk, then looks puzzled, as if he has lost something.
“Didn’t go much better for his replacement, eh?” he continues. “That Murad fellow, a tippler, from what I hear. Wasn’t sultan long enough for me to meet him. Had a nervous breakdown after only three months. Seems to be an occupational hazard.” He whinnies a laugh. “Can’t imagine why these reformists keep trying to put him back on the throne. Congenial fellow, I hear. Maybe that’s why.”
Kamil avoids meeting the blue eyes that are seeking his. Critical as he is of his own government, he feels offended by the ambassador’s disrespectful commentary.
He is startled by Sybil’s cheerful voice. “Wouldn’t you like some tea, Kamil Pasha?”
4
June 15, 1886
My Dearest Maitlin,
I hope that this letter finds you well and in good health and spirits. I have received no letters from you for several weeks. Much as I am aware of the vagaries that beset a missive on the long journey between Essex and Stamboul, nevertheless the lack of news from you, dearest sister, has worried me. I hope and pray that you, Richard, and my darling nephews
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