Flora's heart froze. Her self-discipline compelled her to do what was expected of her – nod, smile, offer her gloved hand in greeting, with the other resting on William's arm. Jane was first in line to kiss her cheeks. Acquiescence or quiet derision? Flora wondered. She wished she could free her smile of hostility, she wished she could say something kind to mend the tension between them. But the sight of Hamid's face among the guests in the far back of the room – if it was him, his puzzled gaze on her face – brought forth a surge of emotions. She focused her mind on the sound of rustling fabrics, on the flapping fans, on the murmur of voices which she let flow over her. Jane she now barely noticed.

The humming line of guests wormed its way through the peacock-coloured room. They stopped briefly before the happy couple then continued, as if gliding, with little nods, half-smiles and measured waves of the hand, onwards through the adjacent ballroom, through the double doors into the garden again, where servants served dinner. The kind of people who made Flora uneasy, not when they came to buy her gloves but here, in these opulent surroundings where she did not belong. At least that's what they were all thinking, that she did not. She gathered this from the way they looked at her when they thought she didn't notice, whispering then shifting their eyes quickly away. And from the way they seemed to address their congratulations to William alone, excluding her.

Faces blended into one dizzying impression, which made her head ache. She recognised clients from her shop, Mme Giraud with her son and beautiful daughter-in-law, Mr Corpis in conversation with the bald-headed Mr Tubini.

Hélène stood by the door, entertained by three young men. She was in a low-cut midnight blue velvet dress which revealed her white shoulders and bosom. There were small white flowers in her hair and a string of pearls around her neck. All eyes were on her, and she seemed to be drunk on the rapture she inspired, her lips curved into a radiant smile and her eyes sparkling.

William whispered something in Flora's ear which she didn't hear. Beneath her superficial ruminations, her thoughts were still on Hamid. Was it really him? It couldn't be. And the man she'd seen earlier at the top at the stairs, who'd resembled Hamid so much that she'd had to flee the room, could it have been him there? She had thought her imagination was playing tricks on her. His presence here made little sense.

While a man in black tails kissed her hand and exchanged a few polite words with William, Flora ventured a second furtive glance in Hamid's direction. His eyes were still on her. Quickly, she looked away, landing her gaze straight in the eyes of another man, the priest, Mr Fowler. Her body jolted as if he'd caught her in a vulgar act. She felt her cheeks flush, and smiled, casually she hoped, though it felt contorted.

She was certain now. It was Hamid. Her heart pounded. This man-of-the-world seemed to have nothing in common with the Hamid she had come to know. She glanced sideways at William, and her heart shrank. Why was Hamid here, in William's house? Did they know each other? Then she considered that perhaps Hamid hadn't come for William, but for her. It seemed impossible, though – the way he'd looked at her from the top of the landing, and now here, told her that he was as surprised as she was to be in this situation.

A few more guests to go and Hamid would be standing before her. She trembled inside. What would she do? What if William realised? But realised what? She kept her lewd fantasies of Hamid locked away in a secure vault inside her head. One part of her told herself to flee, but another part couldn't wait for him to take her hand.

The line of people advanced relentlessly, and his eyes rested on her – she could feel it without looking at him. What was he thinking? Jane had promised that Flora would look extraordinary, and she did. Her dress contrasted beautifully with the blue-green brilliance that framed the gilded leather panes on the walls. The engagement ring on her finger weighed down like a rock when she gave her hand in greeting, plucking them away, guest by guest. All at once she saw herself for what she was: William's prize. Like the precious China on the mahogany shelves in the salon, the gold framed paintings on the walls, or the vintage champagne in the glasses – all William's things, to which her bejewelled, silk clad person was now added. Heavy diamonds hung from her earlobes, thick silk skirts enveloped the laced underwear she wore underneath, so William, watching her greet their guests with such grace, could imagine her being offered to him on the white sheets of his baldaquin bed. She choked back shame.

How many minutes before Hamid would be there, ready to kiss her hand? Then what? He would be close enough for her to smell him. The warmth of his lips would penetrate the silk of her gloves and caress her skin. There was no telling what her body might do, there was no trusting it. Her cheeks would be ablaze, she would go weak at the knees, her hand in his would tremble. Woman is the devil's gateway, wasn't that what the priest had told her?

"Damn," William murmured.

"Is there a problem?" She felt herself shrink back in fear.

"He shouldn't be here," he nodded discretely toward Hamid, then looked around nervously. "Where is Jane?"

In the adjacent ballroom, under thousands of pendulous white wisteria flowers suspended in the air, like confetti falling from the sky, Jane entertained. A string quartet played, and people danced. She looked glorious in her modern, bustle free dress, moulded to her figure, and with the skirt so tightly fitted around the legs that she could hardly walk. But when William signalled for her to come, she scurried to his side.

He pointed to a couple who had stopped to admire the priceless collection of Chinese porcelain on the spindled walnut shelves along the walls. "That's Ambassador Ignatieff and his wife. Get them out of this room. Give them a private tour of the house, or do whatever you need to to keep them away from here for as long as you can. Away from him." William shot a look in Hamid's direction. "They must not see him."

Swinging into immediate action, Jane cruised up to the Ambassador and his wife, and whisked them away while chit-chatting ad nauseam to keep their attention focused on her.

"What is the problem," Flora asked. "Who is he?"

Flustered, William's round cheeks were glowing. "Heir to the throne."

"What throne."

"The Ottoman throne."

She gasped. "That's impossible."

He looked at her, perplexed. "Why would you say that?"

She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I don't know...it just sounds unreal."

It did sound unreal. She was stunned. But why would William lie? And if it was true, why had Hamid pretended to be someone else? What had he been doing in Pera in the middle of the night, fleeing his own soldiers? Had he played a joke on her? She felt a flash of anger. Why would he do such a thing?

But then she realised that she, too, had been dishonest. What must he be thinking of her, a bride-to-be, carrying on with him before her engagement? Another wave of shame washed over her for having revealed herself, for being out of control.

"Pasha Abdul Hamid," the footman announced.

Flora needed a moment to arrange her face. It felt as if the small hairs on her arms and in the back of her neck were standing straight up. She felt warm and dizzy and tried to draw a deep breath, but the air got stuck in her throat.

Hamid took both of her hands in his and kissed them. She fell into a deep curtsey and, as she stood, she raised her gaze, looking into his eyes. All sound seemed to disappear, as if they were captured in a bubble, out of place and out of time.

In a blink it was over and sound returned – the waltzing notes from the adjacent room, the bustle of fabric as people moved, and William's hard-edged whispering voice, his head close to Hamid's. "That would not be prudent," she heard him say. But Hamid must have insisted because William nodded his agreement, reluctantly, she could tell. With her hand in his, Hamid then led her towards the music.

They waltzed amid the other couples. She tried to collect herself, to keep him at a proper distance, with her hand gently resting on his shoulder, but he held her so tight that their bodies touched, and her craving pleasure would not be soothed.

"A prince? Is it true?" she whispered as her gaze swept over the room.

"You will marry him?"

Feeling flushed, she concentrated her mind on her feet, moving rhythmically across the parquet. "We're engaged now."

For a moment, she wondered how he reconciled the intimacy they had shared with the deception about his identity. Maybe that was how he thought of women, that they were there for his distraction? But what about the adventure they'd shared when they saved Reza? All fun and games to him as well? These tangled questions absorbed her while she felt his breath on her cheek.

"I thought I would never see you again," he said.

She looked up and met his intense gaze. They swirled around twice, then continued their three-step journey around the room.

"You are an Ottoman prince, don't you have a harem full of women?"

"Do you love him?"

She laughed nervously and looked away.

"Don't marry him."

They continued swirling, around and around so fast that she lost her breath. Then they journeyed again. Holding her gaze, with his hand resting firmly on the small of her back, he began to recount memories of the night they'd met. Do you remember this, or do you remember that. He also recalled the day they'd spent together, and listed other things he wanted to do with her – a walk, a visit to a neighbourhood in the city, to cross the Bosphorus by boat, continue their search for the seventy-layered baklava. Tears burnt her eyelids.

Then the music stopped. As they let go of each other, she suddenly felt people's gazes – disapproving, disgusted even – and she saw Hélène's wide-open eyes.

Hamid bowed. In a nervous grimace of a smile, she curtseyed.

William appeared next to her, took her by the hand, and brusquely led her out of the room.

She was speechless. Something had happened, she wasn't sure exactly what, and yet everyone had witnessed it. Whatever shocking thing she'd done, it did not fit with her position at this engagement party, with William standing before her, claiming her. Overcome by despair and horror, she tried to compose herself, yet only felt herself continuing to fall into a dark void.

However, when she found herself alone with William in the library – listening to his unremitting voice, watching him pour a drink and remove his waistcoat, then Jane arriving with her blond curls bouncing off her white shoulders, her tight dress, her brilliant jewellery, breathlessly telling William the gossip from the ballroom, about deriding and whispering guests – and he turned to her demanding an explanation, the confusion gradually cleared up, and the shame she had felt dissipated. The unambiguity of this new feeling amazed her, along with the sudden calm she felt inside.

"I'm sorry, William. I... It has nothing to do with you," she said.

"Nothing to do with me? It was disgraceful the way you danced with him. Humiliating. What will people think?"

"I warned you," Jane said.

He looked at Flora in bewilderment. "You can't be feeling well. You have had a long day, in circumstances that you are not accustomed to. It's best that you retire for the evening. Jane, send for a doctor."

Flora retreated towards the door, turned away from him, and ran. She stumbled down the wide, spiralling stairs, past the perplexed doormen, out across the courtyard, and into the street.

__________________________

Author's note

Behold the cuirass, the gown worn by the woman in the embedded image. Tight-fitting, with a long-waisted bodice that extended over the hips, it resembled a medieval knight's armour. The style created a long and striking silhouette.

With a snugly fitting bodice which highlighted the curves of the female body, and a low, sweetheart neckline which drew attention to the bust, the dress was considered daring and even scandalous. By wearing a dress that so dramatically emphasised the female form, Jane might have asserted her sexuality and pushed back against the rigid standards of Victorian modesty.

At the same time, the tight fit and rigid structure of the cuirass made it difficult for Jane to breathe, move, or engage in physical activity, reinforcing the notion that she was a passive, decorative object rather than an active participant in society. By wearing the cuirass, Jane  accepted the limitations placed on her freedom and agency.

It's interesting to note that women's fashion still involves a complex negotiation between personal expression, social expectations, and the constraints of gender norms. The pressure to conform to certain standards of beauty and sex appeal can be seen as a form of social control over women's bodies and identities, but can also be viewed as expressions of female empowerment and sexual liberation.