“I’m pleased you like it. There’s little more satisfying than working with one’s hands, yes?”

“I can imagine.” Careful sanding had given the wood a smoothness that was at once firm and soft.

“Do you read?” he asked. “Anyone with such an appreciation for bookshelves must.”

“Constantly,” I said, not able to stop running my hands over the perfectly finished wood. “Sensational fiction. I’ve a terrible habit of reading the most lowbrow things you can imagine.”

“Do you like detective novels?”

“Conan Doyle stuns me every time.”

He nodded. “You are someone I could like very much. I have his novels translated into Turkish as soon as they are published. The chief of my wardrobe reads them to me, and I do not let him stop until the book is done.”

“An admirable devotion to the written word.”

“I would like very much to have the bookcases sent to your house in England. A gift for you.”

“That’s generous of you,” I said. “Thank you. They will be adored.”

“I would not give them to you otherwise. What else do you read?”

“I study Greek, so lots of Homer.”

“Will you visit Troy while you are in my country?”

“I want to more than anything, if only to lie on the fields and weep for poor, slain Hector.”

This drew a smile. “I will have the trip arranged for you when this ugly business in the harem is finished.” He turned away from the piece on which he’d been working and walked to a pile of long boards, picking up one after another, running his fingertips along the length of each before selecting one to bring back to his bench.

“You’re very kind,” I said.

He pushed a yardstick against the board and began marking measurements with a chewed-up pencil. “I have a deep sympathy for Ceyden’s father. I lost my first child, a daughter, when she was very young. She was burned after playing with matches. Her mother and I suffered immeasurably at the loss. She would be your age now.”