“Did she come to find a comfortable place here?”

“Eventually. As she got older, she began to enjoy the politics of the harem, and she did everything in her power to catch the notice of my son.”

“Was she successful?”

“She was an accomplished artist, though a terrible musician. She could speak French fluently—something the sultan finds enchanting—and wrote maudlin poetry.”

“Did he favor her at all?” I asked.

“He might have come to. But I kept her from him. The sultan cannot risk having children like her. It would threaten the very empire.”

I opened my mouth to protest, having read scores of stories about the cages, as they were called, in which the crown princes grew up, not allowed to learn anything that might make them competent rulers—competence would threaten the sultan, compromise his political stability. This was a dynasty in which rulers for centuries had murdered their own brothers upon ascending to the throne in an attempt to secure their own positions. The immature behavior of a traumatized child paled in comparison.

“You are skeptical, I see,” she said.

“I admit to feeling that it stretches credulity, but I’ve no reason to doubt your veracity.”

“It is essential the sultan know that he can depend upon my judgment. I have in front of me scores of girls when you include the slaves in the harem as well as the wives and concubines. I choose for him the best. Ceyden was not that. You may not agree with my decision, but your opinion of the matter is irrelevant.”

“Quite right. Please do not think I am questioning your actions.” Alienating her would not benefit me in the least. “Did Ceyden know her situation was hopeless?”

Perestu shrugged. “I did not deliberately hide my feelings from her. But her persistence knew no bounds. The day she died she brought me a scarf embroidered with the most intricate detail I’ve ever seen—flowers and birds all in gold and silver thread against a red background. I collect such things.”