“He was sultan before Abdül Hamit’s brother, Murat.” Colin sat up, propping his pillows behind him. “And a master of excess, particularly after he visited Europe. I believe he had twenty-five hundred in his harem.”

“Twenty-five hundred?” I asked.

“The number does include both slaves and eunuchs as well as the concubines, wives, and children. Murat followed him to the throne but ruled for only three months or so. He was mentally unstable, completely unfit to rule an empire, a raging alcoholic. So he was deposed, and Abdül Hamit the Second succeeded him and agreed to a constitutional monarchy. The Year of Three Sultans, they called it.”

“When was this?” I asked, kissing his fingers as he spoke.

“1876. You’re distracting me.”

“Good,” I said. “But a constitution? There’s no parliament here, is there?”

“Not anymore. Abdül Hamit dissolved it years ago.”

“What became of Murat? Nothing pleasant, I imagine.”

“His brother let him live—although he did announce Murat’s death in the papers. He’s imprisoned in a palace somewhere in the city.”

“Is he still ill?”

“Perhaps Bezime can enlighten you on that point. I’ve not the slightest idea.”

“She writes to invite me to visit her at Topkapı Sarayı .”

“Which is the old palace. Where discarded harem girls go to do whatever it is they do after they’re discarded.”

“It must be a dreadful life. Tedious.” I sat up straight and turned to the window, my bare feet dangling off the edge of the bed.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of opening the shutters,” Colin said, scowling as I crossed the room. I flung them aside without answering him and pushed the tall windows out, a gush of watery air filling the room.