May was one of Reshid's preferred months. Morning and evening, the air was crisp, but softly warm during the day, the trees blossomed in clouds of pink and white, and a gentle breeze stirred the sea.

The unpleasant feelings Sir Elliot's dinner had provoked in him were buried and forgotten. He had worked hard before, and now he resolved to work even harder.

At the end of the day, after hours at his desk, he felt depleted, and his bones stiff. After three years of constant movement, he couldn't get used to being sedentary. Notes lay on the table before him, organised in piles. In the higher pile to the left were those he had already transcribed into his new manuscript, and to the right those which had yet to be transcribed. He picked up a note at random and smiled at the memory it evoked.

He had written it in Samarkand when faced with a hard decision. Journey on by land to Peking, across the lands of Tartars, Kirghiz, Kalmuks, Mongols and Chinese. A dangerous route which no white man before him had ventured. Or content himself with the successes already achieved during three years of travels and the lands he'd already crossed, also as the first white man to have done so. Return to Constantinople, publish his findings, and claim the rewards. He had made the more prudent choice, thinking recognition would come easy.

He sighed. He missed adventure now, the stillness of the desert nights, the tickling camel bells, and the few, dear friends he had made on the way. The only friends he'd ever had. The hardships of their travels had welded them together as family, and parting ways with them in Samarkand had broken his heart. Yet not even to these friends had he discarded his pilgrim disguise to reveal his true identity.

The voices of children playing in the street beneath his window reached his ears, and a feeling of anguish, of loneliness, of despair came over him. In a state of strange confusion, he rubbed his eyes. In the darkness, his sight failed him. His head ached. He hadn't noticed evening closing in – it was late enough for candles to be lit. The scent of thyme and cinnamon wafted into the room. At any moment, his maid, Regina, would serve dinner.

His eye wandered to the wooden panel on the wall. He pushed back his chair, counted to three panes from the window, and pressed his fingers against it. The pane opened. From the small cache, he brought out a miniature, nine-branched candelabrum. He rubbed the silver with his sleeve. Hidden and neglected, it had accumulated dust.

"Dinner is served, Efendi," Regina called through the closed door.

Quickly, he returned the candelabrum to the cache and closed the panel door.

It was dark by the time he left the house and limped past merchants' stalls, storehouses, and taverns on his way to the coffeehouse where, on most evenings, he played chess. On his arm, he carried the borrowed suit he had worn to Sir Elliot's dinner, which he would return to his tailor friend. It was a pleasant spring evening and the narrow Galata streets were crowded. In the distance, beyond the quays along the waterfront, lay anchored ships, their lights illuminating the strait between Galata and Stamboul.

Out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared in front of him. Before he could react, the towering man had him pressed against a stone wall. He wore a black satin cloak with the hood pulled over his head and his face was concealed in the gloom. Under the wide belt at his waist, Reshid discerned the handle of a dagger. His heart sank like a rock. A palace eunuch? Why? Who had sent him?

People hurried past, paying them no attention. Reshid would have screamed, but was too terrified even to open his mouth. The eunuch's face broke into a grin, which made Reshid gasp. The grinning mouth, tongueless. The fine features of the face, Reshid's panicked brain analysed, of Nubian origin, or Abyssinian, perhaps. In a flash, he saw in the grown man the innocent boy he had once been. Chained to a table, probably by Coptic clergy men. One slicing off the boy's sexual organs, another sticking a piece of bamboo into the genital area. Submerging him neck-high in sand without food or drink for days. To heal. And to burn in the desert sun. How many survived? One in ten? This eunuch was one of them. A survivor. On the journey to slavery, someone had cut out his tongue as well. Reshid snuffed out the flare of sympathy; he's a deadly beast, he told himself. Don't be fooled.

The eunuch signalled something with his fingers. A battle mask? It made no sense. Or a veil?

"A woman?" Reshid whispered. "Wants to see me?" With a shudder of shame and fear, he remembered the ignominious stories he'd told to bask in the attention of Sir Elliot's guests, and the tacit promise he had made the Ambassador. Knowing full well it was impossible, he wondered if Peresto knew.

The eunuch grabbed Reshid by the arm and gave him a shove. They advanced through winding streets. Even though they remained in Galata, a part of the city which Reshid knew well, he rapidly lost all sense of orientation.

"Where are you taking me?"

The eunuch turned, grinned, but did not slow down.

"Who wants to see me?" It was no use asking. Despite the pressure on his chest, he limped on, forcing his mind to concentrate on the sound of his steps, one right, one-two left, one right.

After they descended some stairs, he realised they'd arrived on the eastern quays. After dark, the quays were abandoned, except for fishing boats scattered like stiff corpses in the sand. The moon hung full and heavy over the dark waters of Marmara, casting the eunuch, who was now in front of him, in a cold silvery light. Long waves rolled with weary sighs against the age-old Byzantine stones.

They stopped outside a ramshackle warehouse. Two stories with bolted windows and large double doors left half open. By the stone wall, a pack of growling dogs feasted on trash. They turned towards the intruders and barred their sharp teeth; their eyes glowed like small yellow stones in the dark. Reshid froze.

"I refuse to go inside," he said.

With an almost imperceptible movement, the eunuch folded his arm around Reshid's neck until he choked.

"Let him go, Mustafa" an urgent voice called out. Light footsteps stopped just inside the double doors. With his head throbbing, he did not trust his ears, and yet he would have known that voice anywhere.

The eunuch shoved Reshid through the narrow opening between the double doors, into the darkness. It smelled of humidity and mould. His ribs hurt, and his wrists and lame leg. His mouth felt like sandpaper. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the obscurity, and then he saw her, smaller than he had imagined her during all these years, like a feather. She wore a thin emerald gauze over her hair and face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. Quickly, he averted his gaze and mumbled incoherently. "Princess Sultana Peresto....?"

He came to his senses, fell to his knees, kissed the floor by her velvet slippers.

"Stand, my friend," she said.

With aching joints, he got back onto his feet. She stood in front of him, hands folded, her familiar voice soft. "Forgive me for bringing you here like this. Mustafa is trustworthy, but not always gentle. I feared you might refuse to come."

He listened humbly, resentfully. She was right. If given half the chance he would have run from Mustafa, and he still wanted to. He felt himself shrink. Blushing and trembling inside, his gaze wandered from her folded hands, upwards across chest and neck. He closed his eyes, opened them and his eyes found hers. My God, how clear and – he swallowed – blue. He wanted to reach out and gently brush the veil back, discover the colour of her hair, of her skin, her lips. If only the emerald gauze would cover her eyes.

Her presence so overwhelmed him with a rush of dizzying joy, he couldn't think straight and tripped over his own tongue. "Your Highness, I don't understand..."

As Peresto spoke, the sense of euphoria quickly transformed into fear. Heart pounding, he only picked up snippets of what she told him – something about a dangerous prophecy which obliged Hamid to flee the palace. This information alone sent shivers down his spine. What was she really saying – no, not saying – what was she confiding? His eyes swept back and forth over the empty warehouse. Where was the Prince? He inhaled sharply, raw, chilled air, and realised that Peresto had asked him something and expected him to answer.

He must have looked dumbfounded.

"I understand the shock," she said, "but there is no one else I can ask. Please Reshid, my friend, won't you accept the Prince in your home, only for a few days? We must save him."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. We? As in Peresto and Reshid. If there was a we, there was an us, the two of them together in her mind. A sudden rush of tears blurred his vision. Irritated, he brought out a handkerchief. She had asked him to bring the heir to the Ottoman throne into his home, to protect him with his life. He felt Peresto's gaze on him, on his crippled leg and pathetic limp, and felt faint.

Anger rose inside him and several unclear lines of thought occupied his mind at once. Despite all his longing for her, all his heart-ache, he had never imagined they would actually meet face to face, because this was unimaginable. It was unnatural. Peresto's velvet slippered foot was not meant to tread the muddy floor of this warehouse, plod the same sordid streets, breathe the same foul-smelling air. It was all wrong, the world turned upside down. It offended him, and scared the living daylights out of him. It was a sign, he thought, one among many lately, that people were conspiring to tear the world apart – not knowingly, rather despite themselves. The walls crumbled and under their feet the earth moved, all around. It was all coming down. Outside, a dog howled, others joined in.

Not trusting his voice to speak, he nodded slowly. He was stunned. There was a palace legend told of Hamid's grandfather, Mahmoud. In the battle for succession, the Sultan had assassinated Mahmoud's brother and cousin. Mahmoud's resourceful mother, a creole woman, said to be the cousin of Empress Josephine of France, had hidden him in an oven and saved his life. When his supporters arrived, Mahmoud came out of the oven, took the throne and had a long reign.

Reshid straightened himself and inhaled a long, deep breath. She was right. His home was as inconspicuous as a kitchen oven. The Sultan and the Valide would not search for Hamid there. Still, as usual, his nervous mind scrambled to evaluate the dangers.

"How long...." He struggled to finish the sentence.

She ignored the implied question. Instead, she said, "That brings me to the second favour I must ask of you," and before he could open his mouth to speak, "Deliver a message from me to Midhat Pasha."

Reshid wanted to shut out her voice. Whatever the message was, he was better off not knowing. But he had no choice. He must memorise it carefully to pass it on verbally to Midhat. His insides trembled, and he suppressed an urge to laugh hysterically.

When later he returned home in a daze, the waterfront was empty of people. Above him floated the sounds of the city. He inhaled. The wind was against him, carrying with it the smell from the Karaköy market, of burning coal and grilled fish.

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Author's note

As for almost all activities in the Imperial Harem, the serving of food was a ceremonial process which followed strict protocols. Female servants, known as kalfa, carried plated dishes from the kitchen to the harem.

Kalfa served the meals to the harem members in their respective quarters or in a designated dining area within the harem. They would taste each dish to ensure its quality and to detect any potential poisoning attempts. Ottoman dining etiquette included sitting on cushions around a low table, using the right hand to eat, and sharing communal dishes.

The preparation of the three main meals of the day required many cooks. By the 17th century, the kitchen staff of the old Topkapi Palace, exceeded 1,000 people! Breakfast would have included bread, cheese, olives, jams, honey, and tea or coffee. Lunch served around midday, would have featured a variety of dishes, such as soups, rice, stews, vegetables, and grilled meats. Dinner would have comprised multiple courses, including appetisers (meze), main dishes (meat, fish, or vegetables), and desserts.