By late evening, Peresto had managed the impossible. Midhat Pasha had granted Hamid permission to leave the palace for the first time in ten years. Officially, to congratulate his sister Cemile on the birth of her son, his godson. But not even Cemile's home was safe. The Valide would likely have planted a spy in her household.

"I have arranged for you to stay with Reshid in Galata," she said as she bid him farewell. He stifled a gasp.

"You disagree," she asked with worried eyes.

"No, it makes sense." If it was unimaginable to him that he should violate the sacred Osmanli privileges by setting foot in the home of a common man, it would be even more so to the Valide. How many days before they'd track him to Reshid's home? A day at most, before he was missed in the palace? Another day or two before the Valide's spies realised he'd never arrived in Cemile's home? After that, however long it took to make Peresto speak.

As if reading his thoughts, Peresto said, "One of Cemile's servants will take your place. Feigning illness, he will not leave his room, and Cemile will serve him personally. It should buy us a few more days, a week perhaps, before the Valide understands." She shifted uneasily. "There is no time to lose."

His heart quickened. "Midhat agreed to this?"

"Midhat doesn't know the details of where you will really be. I sent Mustafa with the request. It was too risky to put the truth in writing in case my note was intercepted, so I used the birth of Cemile's son as an excuse. Midhat signed the pass. As soon as you are safely arrived in his home, Reshid will meet with him to explain."

"Reshid," he asked faintly.

"The Valide's spies are watching me. Any deviation from my daily routine could provoke suspicion. They won't suspect Reshid."

He nodded and gave her a weary smile. "What if Midhat Pasha refuses to act?"

"He must act." She gazed at him with glittering eyes. "He will act. Don't lose hope, Hamid. If you do, we are all lost."

Mustafa accompanied him past the eunuch guards, through a backdoor he had not known existed, to the waiting carriage. His fragile mood was soured by guilt for abandoning Murad. What if he had sat him down to talk about the situation? Peresto might not have forgiven him, but at least the blame for whatever came next would not be his. He had obeyed Peresto, in part out of respect for her judgement in political matters. There were other reasons too for his acquiescence, more selfish and false. A misplaced resentment against Murad for his weakness, a lust to punish him for it, and also his own cowardly urge to flee. He was not proud to have these thoughts. In his shoes, would not Murad have done the same? And if, against all odds, the coup succeeded and Murad became Sultan, would that not right this wrong?

As the carriage turned out of the palace gates and swayed down the coastal road towards Galata, as the cleansing air filled his lungs and seeped through the twists and turns of his morbid mind, his nerves steadied and he felt a smile emerge on his face. Without the eunuch guards, and only Hifsi next to him in the anonymous black carriage, he felt almost normal. He pulled aside the curtain and looked inland, toward the glittering lights of Pera. In that instance, Flora's essence washed over him like a wave, and he felt the full weight of it, of having returned to his palace life without a thought to her wellbeing. He had, he realised, omitted to tell Peresto about her, though she had saved his life. He could only explain it as an irrational form of resistance, to shut Peresto out and point his silent anger towards her as he often did, childishly blaming her. Or, perhaps he had omitted to evoke Flora's name in the palace – even the memory of her – as a way of protecting her. Now his compulsive mind scrambled to imagine all the horrendous things that could have happened as she made her way back to the shop through dark streets. It made the hair on his neck rise. Had she been accosted by rowdy, drunk sailors? Attacked by murderers who roamed the streets at night? And meanwhile, what had he been doing? The time since their night together had been a blur – the way he'd returned to his old palace routine like a ghost, in a state of gloom, consumed by grief and hopelessness. Wallowing in self-pity. Not for a second had he worried about her. Not for a second. After all she had done for him.

"Tell the driver to go through Pera," he announced to Hifsi.

"My instruction is to bring you straight to the lame teacher."

"Do as I say."

They turned inland, laboured up a hill and entered Pera. He recognised some of the streets through which he had dragged Reza, the streetlights, the cafés, the stylish boutiques. It struck him that the sumptuous architecture reminded him of Paris. As vivid as a dream, the memory came back of nine years ago, the last time he and Murad had been granted permission to leave the palace. The emperor Louis Napoleon of France had invited the Sultan to Paris to attend the world exhibition. Even though no Ottoman ruler had ever left the empire before, other than to conquer new lands, the Sultan accepted. The purpose of his journey was humiliating: he needed to establish personal ties with the Emperor to secure new, French loans. Thus, despite protests from the palace conservatives, the Sultan had travelled to Europe. Eunuchs and women were left at home, so he would appear liberal and progressive. His reduced retinue included cooks, to make sure he didn't touch the food of the infidel, coffee makers, sword bearers and keepers of the imperial wardrobe, and, last but not least, his two nephews.

"Safer to bring us along than leave us to conspire here," Hamid had told Murad. Since Medjid's death, he had felt his uncle's watching eyes on them, his distrust and jealousy, and how, with each passing year, his paranoia worsened, and their liberties diminished. Murad had been excited and boasted about his knowledge of French, which he could put to use. "Don't be so gloomy, brother. I plan on enjoying this trip."

They'd been entertained by French officers: suppers at Maxime's with pretty girls, and parties where Murad developed a taste for champagne with brandy. The Sultan had disliked France, despised Louis Napoleon, and detested the way Empress Eugénie engaged Crown Prince Murad in lengthy conversations in a foreign language. By the end of the trip, no fresh loans had been obtained.

While Murad grew fuddled with drink, Hamid had scarcely touched his wine. Behind his silent and apathetic facade, he'd watched. He noticed that the life of Louis Napoleon at court was not much different from his own life in the palace: the observing eyes all around, the solitude, the false ingratiating smiles, the distrust, the jealousies, the fear of being unworthy, the crushing weight of the past.

As he'd toured the streets of Paris and admired the sights of the Great Exhibition, he also noticed a world he had not known existed. Through the window of his carriage, he watched ordinary people cooking food, squinting in the bright sunshine, and enjoying a cool breeze on a warm day. As an heir to the throne, he was revered like a god and yet, without liberty, with no path of his own to forge.

What was it like to be anonymous, to move through life unseen, to live a life infused with natural meaning: a mother hanging out the washing, a bishop strolling across a square, a butcher cleaning his knife, a shopkeeper calling out her wares. There was freedom in their insignificance, in not having to account to anyone, in their invisibility.

From Paris they'd continued to London, before returning to the palace where the Sultan had confined them to 'the cage', erasing what little freedom they had left. It still filled him with bitter rage. His thoughts returned to the coup. Even if Midhat Pasha agreed to act, the chances of success were horrifyingly slim. He knew now in his heart he could not return to 'the cage' again. He would rather die.

The carriage stopped while the driver cleared the road of sleeping stray dogs. Hamid realised this was one of the streets through which he had dragged Reza's limp body. Flora's shop could not be far. The image of Flora's face flashed up in his mind and, this time, he did not suppress it, but ceded to the warmth that spread in the whole of his body as he brought back every detail of their meeting.

His own workshop at the palace was more spacious, but the sturdy workbench in the back-room of hers, with a vise and cutting tools for gloves, was similar enough to his own carpentry workbench to have made him feel at ease there. Every detail of her shop had been remarkable to him. Most astonishing had been his own presence there, and the natural manner with which Flora treated him. He'd felt seen, not only by her, but by himself. It hadn't been the simple kaftan he'd worn, or the lines of dirt on his face which had made him feel different. 

Rather, it had been as if, gradually, over the long night, he'd shed his Osmanli persona, and another being had been brought forth, completely unknown to him, yet more real and strangely familiar. So when he'd omitted to reveal his real identity to Flora, it hadn't felt like lying. On the contrary, it'd felt as if, for the first time in his life, he was being sincere and truthful. Her kindness and trust in him sparked a warmth in his heart, and an anxious desire to be worthy, to not let her down.

If Reza lived, it was thanks to him, she had said, and to his surprise, he did not object. Her praise had made him feel weightless, and astonished - reflected in her eyes, he saw an image of himself which he had never seen before, and he believed it. He trusted her judgement. He was worthy and valiant because she was all those things and more, and he'd been with her, in that unlikely space, with her gracious gaze on him like a warm beam of light. The memory made him shiver from pleasure. He would do anything to have stayed in that warmth. He would do anything to not be the man he was, but the man he dreamt of being.

While he daydreamed, the carriage turned into the Grand Rue de Pera. As they rolled past the open iron gates of the Cité, he told himself, if I see her again... He didn't finish the thought because, at that moment, the store was there, the door closed, and curtains drawn. What a fool he was. It was the middle of the night, Flora would be asleep in bed.

Awkwardly, he disentangled himself from the back of the seat and turned to look through the back window. For a second, he thought he saw her standing there, sparkling in the dim streetlight. Without taking his eyes off that image, he smiled, not knowing at what.

As he sat back in his seat, a sense of precipitation expanded in his chest. He had the urge to get out of the carriage, to lose himself in these unknown streets and disappear forever. He didn't move. He never did. Fear was an integral part of his life and he had learnt to pretend not to notice. The harem had taught him to avoid violent reactions; it was safer to sit back, impassive and measured, watch, listen, and bide his time. It was better to count. One, two, three...

It didn't keep the fear from expanding inside. He felt swollen with dread, his joints and organs aching from the pressure, as if he might burst. With painful clarity, he saw the terrible logic of his situation. It was not only that he had to live in constant fear of sudden, brutal death by the hand of an enemy. His own wants and needs were bottled up inside and he had to live in the fear of what that might do to him. He had to live in fear of himself.

Hamid counted nine steps from the door of Reshid's study to the bay windows where he paused, hands gripping the sill as he stared out into the night. He returned to the door, nine steps, and looked about, anxiously. The door to the study, which would double as his sleeping quarters for the next few days, was safely closed. Crouching next to it, Hifsi waited, his alert and watchful eyes sweeping back and forth over the room. It felt comforting, for once he didn't mind being guarded.

"There's only Regina and her husband, Isaac, here," Reshid said. "They came with the house. Hungarian Jews, we can rely on their discretion."

Despite the late hour, Reshid had instructed the maid, Regina, to light oil lamps and bring food and drink, but Hamid wasn't hungry.

He remembered that Reshid, although a respected Muslim dervish, had been born Hungarian and Jewish, and noted with surprise that his home bore no trace of this heritage. It was ascetic and mostly Ottoman in style, a thin carpet on the floor, a divan and a few large cushions for all the furniture, and a hookah for smoking tobacco. He noticed, standing against a wall, a French writing table – mahogany with inlays of mother of pearl, his expert eye told him – of the kind Peresto had in her study, and shelves, unadorned but filled with books like hers, lining the walls. The resemblance was reassuring. His fingers trailed along the spines of the books as he examined them, then picked one at random and flicked through the pages.

"Pre-Islamic poetry," Reshid said.

"You mean from the age of ignorance?" Jahiliyyah. He'd come across the term in a newspaper article about secular modernity. The author argued that western modernity and the abandonment of Islamic law for man-made laws led to a state of domination of humans over humans, as opposed to submission to God, and would, therefore, send the Muslim world back into the paganism of the pre-Islamic age.

"I particularly appreciate the descriptions of bedouin life in the desert. Exquisite, sensitive, full of fine imagery, and true. Very much like I experienced it during my travels."

"Ah," he said, struck once again by how little he knew of the empire. His gaze was drawn to the darkness outside the bay windows. "You know, when you first told me about your travels, the places you have seen and the people you have met, it dawned on me that I would die. A wasted life without accomplishments or experiences. I envy you."

"Envy?"

Reshid's stare of disbelief unsettled him. His words were inappropriate, his presence here absurd. The intimacy of Reshid's home and the few items that reminded him of his own world had made him feel a likeness which he knew did not actually exist. He laughed nervously.

Gesturing to the book in Hamid's hand, Reshid said, "Please, my Lord, accept it as a gift."

He hesitated. The book was forbidden reading for him, and yet, refusing the gift might offend his host.

"Allow me," Reshid said, as if sensing his confusion. He took the book and placed it on the desk. "You can read it at your leisure." He shot Hamid a worried glance. "I hope I have not acted out of turn, my Lord."

"Not at all."

They both struggled to speak. Reshid opened the window and let in the fresh night air. In the wire cage next to the window, a white canary stirred, perched on a bar and fluffed up like a ball as if to protect himself from cold. Hamid approached, studied it curiously and said, "She's sick."

"She won't eat, for a few days already."

They considered the bird briefly.

"I keep thinking it's a sign," Reshid murmured.

"A sign?"

"Oh don't mind me, I see signs everywhere I look because I am a silly, old man," Reshid said and covered the cage with a black cloth so the bird could sleep.

Hamid's gaze lingered on the black cloth and wondered what sign Reshid might see in the dying bird. He shuddered and realised how profoundly tired he was.

"May I suggest we continue our lessons tomorrow, Your Highness? To use our time together wisely."

"Yes, of course we will," he said with a rush of relief. "Tomorrow first thing." It was exactly what they should do, continue as if everything was normal. It seemed so obvious and he felt lighter already. "It's probably safer and easier to dispense of titles and ceremonial formalities while I'm here. Please, call me Hamid."

"It would be an honour," Reshid said with a deep bow. With an anxious glance to the door, he added, "I should probably...Princess Peresto Sultana asked me to..."

Hamid inhaled sharply. "You understand what you must do?"

Reshid nodded, and made a vague gesture of helplessness. He seemed frightened and frail, but he was their only hope.

"I would have preferred to go myself," Hamid said, and he meant it.

"Of course."

Hamid felt he should say something reassuring. "Hopefully, this will all be over soon." And hearing how hollow his words sounded, "Reshid, I – we all – depend on you."

The door closed behind Reshid and he was left alone. If, against all odds, they succeeded with this madness, Murad would owe his throne to the very men who they hoped would betray his uncle. Could they be trusted? Once a traitor, always a traitor – one of the many rules Peresto had instilled in him. That, and the principle that traitors must die. He licked his dry lips and swallowed.

______________________

Author's Note

The Tanzimat reforms were a series of modernizing measures implemented in the Ottoman Empire between 1839 and 1876. These reforms aimed to centralise and modernise the empire's administration, military, legal system, and education, as well as to improve the status of non-Muslim subjects.

As part of the modernisation of the army along Western lines, Sultan Abdulaziz built the third strongest fleet in the world after Britain and France. Unfortunately, the cost of building and maintaining the fleet was so high that it contributed to the Empire's financial crisis and to it defaulting on its foreign debt in 1875. It is said that once the fleet was built, there were not enough trained sailors to man the 21 battleships and 173 warships.