The current of people swept Flora back to the shop. As she stood with her back to it, she noticed young men mixed in amongst the crowd, with flowing beards and white tunics, egging people on with their chanting, some waving guns and firing them aimlessly into the air. They reminded her of Reza and Hamid the night she'd taken them in, only the eyes of these men burnt with fervour, and even though she couldn't understand their chants, their frenzied voices were spine-chilling.

The door to the shop opened behind her, and Siran pulled her inside. They held each other tight. Siran started crying. "They are softa. I've seen this before; first they chant and then they burn our homes and our loved ones. What will they do to Anoush? I must go to the church, I must find her." Siran's voice trembled. "What if she needs me? What if she's dead?"

Flora felt a pang of guilt - she had left Siran alone to worry about Anoush. She was right, they should search for her now. If nothing else, it would make them both feel less helpless.

They slipped back into the street and carefully locked the door behind them. Carried by the crowd, it took them a good two hours to reach the Armenian church via Grand Rue de Pera and narrow Galata stairways. Flora held Siran's hand tightly, but several times they almost lost each other. At one point, Siran tugged at her arm so hard she would have fallen had she not stumbled into a fat stomach. An angry voice shouted at her in a language she did not understand. Someone then slammed into her back, bodies stumbled and pushed as a group of chanting, white-clad softa ploughed through the crowd. Flora and Siran found themselves shoved up against the wall. Siran's fingers dug into Flora's arm, stiff with fear.

"What are they chanting?" Flora shouted to make herself heard.

"Blood and sword on our flag are flying; On our hills and plains roams no fear of dying." Siran grimaced. "It's a verse from a popular song."

"About what?"

"Chasing the infidel away from the Empire."

Near Saint Gregory the Illuminator church in the Armenian area, the crowd thinned and the softa's chant faded in the distance. Siran relaxed. The refugees who were camped in these streets were Christian Orthodox like her, chased from their homes in remote parts of the empire. The sisters dedicated their free time here to help in any way they could. Siran inquired about Anoush and a man directed them to the church. They followed a gang of whooping children to the entrance, removed their shoes and stepped inside, onto a soft, carpeted floor.

In the obscurity, an overbearing smell of incense greeted them, and from underneath that the scent of poverty wafted out: sweat, urine, tobacco. It evoked a sad feeling in her, which was attached to a succession of memories from Flora's childhood at the farm during her mother's illness. She pushed them back down a foggy path of her mind. Camped refugees lined the aisles of the church, but they'd kept a small area by the altar clear for services. On the stone walls hung images of saints, their pious faces lit by hundreds of candle flames.

They found Anoush in a corner, engaged in intense discussions with a group of young men and women. Flora recognised the man whom Anoush called her lover, the freedom fighter Johannes. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt when Anoush caught sight of Siran and jumped to her feet. The sisters argued about who had been more careless, Anoush taking off without sending word that she was alright, or Siran following her. They eventually reconciled and fell into each other's arms. Anoush kissed Siran's cheeks and looked her deep in the eye. "The Sultan is gone, can you believe it?"

Flora looked at Anoush numbly. "Do you know any more about the coup? Was there violence?"

"There was intense fighting around the palace, and a new prince has taken Abdulaziz's place. We're not rid of them yet."

"There have been cannon shots," Johannes said. "But we don't know for sure what it means. It could be Russian naval units in the Bosphorus."

"You mean the coup might have failed?"

"It's too early to celebrate," Johannes said.

"I think he's gone," Anoush said. "I think they've deposed that murderous bastard."

"Were there deaths?" Flora's voice trembled.

Anoush gave Flora a hard look and shrugged. "I hope so. I hope they all die."

Flora swallowed. Anoush pulled Siran down next to her and resumed the discussion with her friends in their language, which Flora didn't understand. A woman brought Flora a cup of warm lemon water.

Raucous celebrations in the city went on late into the night. It was safest to stay put, they decided, until things had calmed down. Christian merchants from the area, who had closed their shops and sought refuge in and around the church, warned of attacks from the Muslim crowds. Rumours spread of young men robbing Christian shops amidst the chaos.

A priest arrived and held service. The church filled up, and Flora stood squeezed, shoulder to shoulder, between Siran and Anoush as everyone sang hymns and held hands in a long and winding human chain. It was comforting, and for a moment she forgot about Hamid. Later, Anoush's friends invited her to share a simple meal – a watery, boiled rice which they scooped up with flatbread.

Armed patrols were organised to keep guard outside the church throughout the night. Together with three of her companions, Anoush volunteered for the first shift. The youths looked fierce and strong, with rifles on their shoulders.

Flora and Siran curled up close together for warmth, and to get some sleep.

"Thank you for coming with me," Siran whispered. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just tired."

Flora longed to confide in her, to share her fear for Hamid's life. She didn't know how to, though. When she'd returned from the Seagrave ball, she had told the girls that she had broken off her engagement with William, but hadn't mentioned Hamid. What was there to say? That she had made a show of herself at the ball? That she had then suggested to an Ottoman prince they should sail away together? Even now, the foolishness of those words made her blush. At that moment, when they'd embraced outside her shop, and even as she'd waited for news of the coup, she had thought she loved him. Now, that too, felt ridiculous. It was pathetic. And shameful. Hamid's family was responsible for the suffering of all these people. She tried and failed to convince herself he was different, without relation to the horrors executed in the name of the dynasty. Even if Siran might forgive her, Anoush would not.

As she waited for sleep to come, she listened to the muffled exchange between Anoush and her friends in that strange, unintelligible language. Eventually, she drifted off, woke and slept again.

Flora headed back to Pera before the rising sun had cleared off the walls of the church. Siran must have talked sense into her sister, because after some internal debating, both sisters joined her. They trailed behind, engaged in deep conversation. She felt their furtive glances on her back, too drained to worry or explain herself.

Along the streets, lamplighters perched on ladders were extinguishing the wicks of the gas streetlights. Calm had been restored, after a long, tumultuous night during which one regime had been removed and a new one installed. Mounted soldiers roamed the streets in small groups to maintain order and admonish people to return to work. It had been a bloodless coup, without violence and without any increased tensions between Christians and Muslims in the City. Doubt had been succeeded by hope that things would now get better. Despite the early hour, diligent shop owners, Christians and Muslims together, were busy repairing damages and sweeping away the litter which the crowds had left behind in the muddy roads.

The scent of hot bread drifting from a baker made her stomach grumble from hunger. Her attention was diverted by a passing newspaper boy who shouted, "Read all about it, read all about the new Sultan, Murad IV!"

She slipped him a coin, grabbed a paper, and tore through the pages. There was an expectation that Murad's new regime would take stronger action against the rebels in the Balkans and against Russia. And also, that, from now on, the expenditures of the Sultan and of the administration would be curbed through the introduction of stronger legislation. Apparently, millions of dollars' worth of Ottoman bonds, jewelry and gold had been found in Abdulaziz's apartment. Murad had turned it all over to the Ottoman treasury. Abdulaziz's exotic animal collection had been opened to the public. Murad, the journalist said, ruled by the Grace of God and the will of the people. There was no mention of Hamid.

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Author's note

Constantinople's media landscape at the time of the deposition of Abdulaziz, reflected the Ottoman Empire's political turbulence and social changes. The official press, like Takvim-i Vekayi (Calendar of Events), published government decrees and curated news. However, there were also private newspapers and journals in Ottoman Turkish, French, and Armenian and other languages that offered political, intellectual, and cultural perspectives and criticism of the government.

The printing press, introduced in the early 18th century, significantly impacted Ottoman society by the 19th century. The Tanzimat reforms encouraged print media growth, and by 1876, Constantinople had numerous printing houses producing books, newspapers, and journals, facilitating the spread of ideas and political discourse among the literate population. Estimates indicate that the overall literacy rate in the empire was below 10% in the late 19th century.

The Ottoman government sought to control the press through censorship and regulations. For example, the Press Law of 1864 required publications to obtain a license and prohibited content deemed offensive to the government or Islamic values. Despite these restrictions, the printing press remained crucial for expressing and disseminating ideas in Constantinople and the empire.